


Good Neighbours, Good Fences (and Other Misunderstandings)

by out_there



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Harlequin Big Bang, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Neighbours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 01:50:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20463056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: The first time Crowley meets his downstairs neighbour, Aziraphale is breaking into his flat. He's not what Crowley imagined in a burglar -- he's fussy, old-fashioned, and surprisingly adorable. Crowley is intrigued, Aziraphale is ready to share a good wine... and possibly more.(Human neighbours AU.)





	Good Neighbours, Good Fences (and Other Misunderstandings)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2019 Harlequin Big Bang Challenge. Thanks to Celli and Misbegotten for being tireless cheerleaders, always offering enthusiasm and sympathy as needed. Writing this wouldn't have been half as much fun without you guys.  
Thanks to Smallhobbit for betaing and brit-picking, and giving great advice on how an A&E would really work.  
Title is a reference to Robert Frost's poem, [Mending Wall](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44266/mending-wall).

Crowley never has trouble sleeping. He's not one to wake up in the middle of the night with an existential crisis. He usually sleeps well and wakes up to morning sunshine, or what passes for it in London.

Disconcertingly, this time he wakes up in the dark. He's trying to work out why he's awake when he hears it. A noise. A click. Coming from his living room. Crowley lives in Mayfair, in a very secure and expensive building made of concrete and reinforced glass. But that sounds like a slowly creaking door.

Crowley sits up, heart beating hard in his chest. Of course, every man fancies himself as Liam Neeson, able to defend himself and protect the things he loves. In reality, Crowley hasn't hit someone since he was ten and even then it wasn't an outright victory: black eye on one side, bloody nose on the other. 

The idea of stepping out of his safe bedroom and confronting the intruder… well, it doesn't seem like Crowley's smartest idea. Crowley's weapons of choice have always been sarcasm and a sneer. He wouldn't do well against a thug with a machete.

Then he hears a soft "Ouch!" and the thump of someone walking into furniture. "What in the world…"

That's not the sound of a 6'4" thug fresh out of a two-year stint behind bars. The voice is southern, Oxbridge educated, very proper and possibly a little drunk. It certainly doesn't sound like the knife-wielding type.

Crowley sits there blinking, and then the light switches on in his living room, edging his bedroom door in white. He hears that voice again: "Oh, good lord."

Crowley has to get up and investigate. He runs both hands through his hair, making sure it's not a complete disaster, and then opens his bedroom door to find a man staring at his living room in horrified disbelief.

Strange is the first word that comes to mind. Dowdy and fuddy-duddy also spring up, although Crowley would never use those terms aloud. There's a soft cloud of platinum curls and a round pouting face, but it's the bow tie that Crowley can't stop staring at. There's no edge of hipster irony here; this is an earnest bow tie. A bow tie that believes its light tartan check is stylish, that it is the key piece that brings together loose-cut trousers and a worn-thin waistcoat, and a fawn coat too long and too loose to have ever been in style.

It's the kind of look movies like to cast as distracted professor types. Crowley's worked at universities and he's met the cut-throat academics who thrive in that publish or perish world. None of them look like this.

"Excuse me," the man says, sharply polite as he pulls himself to his full height, "but who are you?"

"Crowley." The grin is automatic, much like Crowley's instinctive step forward, hand out to shake. "Anthony J Crowley."

The stranger shakes Crowley's hand. His palm is warm and dry, soft as the comfortable fabric of his clothes. It invites touch; Crowley pulls his hand back before he's tempted to linger.

"Lovely to meet you, I'm sure, but why are you here?"

"I was trying to sleep." Crowley waves a hand down at his pyjamas, and he doesn't miss the way the man's eyes flick down and linger on the way back up. Well, that's promising. Especially when Crowley's standing here in dark grey flannel. It's hardly his best look.

"In my bed?" the stranger says, just a little too flustered. It's flattering.

"In my bed." Crowley waves an arm towards the bedroom door behind him. "You can come and check if you like." It's the perfect opening. Enough flirtation to be suggestive, not enough to be crude. Mild enough that it could be laughed off as a joke.

But where the stranger should smile and say something about making sure, he frowns. "This is 3B, isn't it?"

"5B."

"That's why my furniture was gone! Oh, I'm-- I'm terribly sorry. I thought… well." He stops with fingers pressed against his lips and eyes wide in alarm, and the whole thing is absurd. Too absurd to get embarrassed over.

"You're hardly to blame. The corridors all look the same and if they're too cheap to use unique locks on every flat…"

"Well…" the stranger says again, and now Crowley's interest is piqued.

"I know I locked the door."

"Yes, but…"

"But what?"

"I've been having trouble with my front door, and it seemed like a waste to get a locksmith out when picking a lock is relatively simple. At least with this model. You only need a few moments and there you go. Open in a jiffy."

"Jiffy?" Crowley repeats. He's pretty sure his eyebrows are somewhere around his hairline, but what other reaction can he have to this smiling, earnest man talking about breaking and entering? Other than suggesting the bedroom again, since Crowley's always had a weakness for good boys breaking the rules. "You picked my lock?"

"I did think it was my flat," is the prim reply.

"Should I walk you to your door? Make sure you find the right one this time?"

Again, there's that quick interested glance. A small smile. "I wouldn't want to put you to any bother."

"No bother," Crowley says quickly. "Believe me, no bother at all. Just let me get dressed."

It's a cheap ploy to wave a hand at his own state of undress -- to draw attention so obviously -- but it's worth the speculative gleam in his visitor's eyes.

"Oh, yes, of course," his guest says, glancing away like a coy maiden from Gilbert and Sullivan. He takes a few steps towards the other side of the room, inspecting the lush green leaves of the potted ficus.

Crowley steps into his bedroom, pulling the door behind him, but leaving it open a few inches. Not enough for his guest to see in but enough for sound to travel. "You haven't told me your name," Crowley says, opening his wardrobe. There's a wide range of fashionable blacks and greys, the occasional pop of scarlet or deep mahogany.

"Mr Browne."

"Mr?" Crowley questions, pulling out skinny jeans and then discarding the idea just as quickly. Yes, he looks great in them but, no, he doesn't want to spend five minutes shimmying and tugging. Sometimes, there's some graceless hopping required. "No first name?"

"It's a long story."

Crowley pulls out a pair of black trousers and his favourite pair of snakeskin boots. "I've got time."

"My parents were quite traditional and it's a family name," Mr Browne says, obviously stalling.

Crowley pulls out scoop neck top and a sharp black jacket to sit over it. "And?" He buttons it up and checks the mirror. He undoes the buttons again.

There's a loud sigh from the other room. "Aziraphale."

"Aziraphale?" Crowley echoes, stepping back into the living room. If he puts a little extra swagger into his step, well, no one could prove it. It turns out to be a wasted effort. His guest is now standing by the potted rubber plant, running a careful finger over the dark, thick leaves as he inspects it. "Your parents named you Aziraphale?"

"It's the name of an angel," Browne replies, resigned to a familiar spiel. "Just not quite as well known as Gabriel or Michael. I usually go by Mr A Z Browne."

"I'm not even going to ask what the Z stands for."

"Please don't," Aziraphale says, turning around. There's the reaction Crowley was hoping for: a soft flash of tongue as he licks his lips, eyes flicking down and up with no subtlety. Crowley stays where he is, leaning against the doorframe, hip cocked. He gives Aziraphale a slow smirk.

"Let's get you into your bed," Crowley says, and Aziraphale's cheeks go pink. It's not a bad look on him.

Crowley pockets his phone and his keys on the way out. As they wait for the tastefully quiet lift, Crowley watches Aziraphale. He's a fidgeter, tugging at his waistcoat, checking the pockets of his coat, finally clapping his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels. He keeps shooting quick glances at Crowley, looking away when he finds Crowley watching him.

The elevator dings open. Aziraphale steps forward with his chin raised, carefully not looking at Crowley. It's equal parts awkward and hilarious. Crowley wonders what would happen if he grinned or winked next time Aziraphale looks at him, if he'd smile in return or combust in embarrassment.

Aziraphale clears his throat, looking up from his shoes for a moment. "I am sorry for the misunderstanding. For disturbing your night."

"Does anyone really call you Aziraphale?" Crowley blurts out, instead of something actually related to the current conversation.

"Well, my parents, certainly."

"But at school? Friends?" It's hard to imagine, but the name sort of rolls off the tongue. Crowley finds himself wanting an excuse to use it. "I really can't imagine it."

"Most of the boys went by surname," Aziraphale replies. "It really wasn't a problem."

It's not the sort of name Crowley could imagine calling out in bed. Well, he could, but it's a name meant to sighed, maybe a soft begging whine caught at the back of your throat. "Did you ever think of changing it?"

"Changing it?"

"Legally. You know, a few forms and small fee, a new legal name. It would have been easy."

"Did I ever think of legally changing my name?" Aziraphale echoes slowly. "Did you ever think of changing yours?"

"Yeah," Crowley says, stepping out as the lift doors open on the third floor, "when I was nineteen. I thought Jesus would be a great middle name."

Aziraphale's expression is barely disguised horror. "Jesus?"

"Think of the number of jokes you could make," Crowley says but Aziraphale only blinks at him. "It's fine. I sobered up before I worked out how to get the money together."

"How fortunate," Aziraphale mutters, stopping in front of a door. The hallway and the door looks identical to Crowley's -- same paint scheme, same fittings -- but this one says 3B. Aziraphale pulls out a set of keys and tries one, but he doesn't look surprised when it gets stuck and won't turn.

He fishes a little zipped up case -- blue and pink florals, like a travelling nail kit -- and pulls out two long metal pins that look like they have little hooks at the end.

"This is definitely your place?" Crowley asks, suddenly wondering if he should have asked to see ID.

"Yes," Aziraphale says, bending over the lock and sticking his elbows out to get those little metal hooks in the key slot. He pulls at something and then there's a click.

"Impressive. How did you learn to do that?"

Crowley's hoping for a tale of a misspent youth, maybe something just a little bit naughty, but Aziraphale shrugs. "I lived with a locksmith for a while. It seemed like a useful skill to have."

"And he was happy to teach you?" Crowley asks, fishing as subtly as he can.

"He grumbled about it, but he grumbled about everything, really." Standing up, Aziraphale opens the door halfway. He stands in the doorway, his hand still on the knob. "He was a terrible flatmate when it came to splitting the utility bills, but at least we were never locked out."

"There are advantages to living alone."

"There are, I suppose." Aziraphale glances into the dark flat, but he keeps blocking the doorway. "Again, I'm dreadfully sorry about waking you."

"There are worse ways to wake up." Crowley leans a hand against the wall. He's close enough to reach out and touch Aziraphale, to run a hand down the faded material of his waistcoat, but that might be a little too forward. 

"I'd invite you in for a cup of tea, but that's probably a terrible mistake at this time of night. Caffeine and all."

"What's one more terrible mistake?" Crowley leans closer, and Aziraphale glances away for a second and then back to him. "Especially at this time of night?"

Aziraphale pulls himself up tall, and takes a short, sharp step backwards. "Well, I think there have been enough mistakes made tonight. But it was lovely to meet you, Anthony."

Crowley blinks, trying to work out how this turned south so suddenly. But when Aziraphale holds out his hand, there's nothing Crowley can do but shake it and nod. "You, too."

"Good night," Aziraphale says, stepping inside the dark flat and promptly closing the door.

Crowley runs a hand through his hair. He stares at the door. There's a line of light underneath it as Aziraphale turns on a lamp, but it remains definitely closed. Huh.

Crowley's not sure what went wrong there, but you can't win them all. At least that's what he tells himself as he stabs the lift button.

***

Crowley has fantastic gaydar -- honestly, he can spot an interested man at a hundred paces -- and he knows Aziraphale Browne was interested, at least for a moment. But there are a dozen reasons why he could have changed his mind and most of them have nothing to do with Crowley. There's no need to take it personally.

Crowley might be disappointed but he's over it by the next day. Maybe there was a spark but that's hardly unusual for Crowley. He's an attractive man in his late forties who owns a nice flat in Mayfair and runs his own consultancy business. He has no trouble finding company when he wants it.

He doesn't see Aziraphale for the next two weeks. It's unsurprising. He'd never met Aziraphale until that midnight break-in, so they probably have very different schedules. Still, Crowley falls into the habit of pressing the third floor button when he gets in the lift, letting the doors open on the off-chance he'll catch sight of blonde curls.

He doesn't do it when there are other people in the lift. It would be inconvenient (and would look strange and be weird to explain). After three weeks of the third floor corridor remaining Aziraphale-free, even Crowley has the self-awareness to see that it's a little pathetic.

Clearly, he needs to get laid.

It's a Saturday night and Crowley always knows the new hot place, so he pours himself a glass of wine and strides to his wardrobe. He starts with the tightest pair of jeans he owns, the ones so tight he can't fit his keys into his pocket. From experience, he knows he can fit one key, one credit card, and one very sleek and very thin phone. 

Crowley has to lie on the bed to tug them on, but it's worth it. He's not a twenty-four year old twink anymore; he can't get away with hot pants and a mesh shirt, but a closely tailored black shirt never goes out of style. Tucking it into the jeans is a new form of origami. It takes careful folds to keep the smooth silhouette, but when Crowley looks at himself in the mirror, he looks taller and leaner than he is. He smiles at his own reflection, but it ruins the image. A sardonic smirk looks much better. A pair of expensive sunglasses completes the look.

Crowley's good in clubs. He's good at finding a spot by the bar and standing in enough light to be seen. He's good at sideways glances and sly smiles, good at returning someone's interest without saying a word. He's very good at being available.

He's not good at waiting. It's nine-thirty, but only a loser shows up at a club before midnight. He could go to a bar, but hooking up at a club is a lot easier. And there's a small voice that says he won't make the right impression if he's been drinking for hours before he even gets there. 'Older' can be sophisticated and sexy, but not if you're sloppily drunk. Then you just become everyone's creepy uncle, and nobody wants to hook up with that.

Crowley huffs out a breath and pushes himself off his couch. Might as well water the pot plants.

He waters them. He pulls out the soil pH kit and checks on their potting mix. He even indulges the ficus with some soluble fertiliser.

It's only a quarter to eleven, but if he doesn't get out of the flat soon he's going to turn on the TV, and then he's going to sit down and watch The Golden Girls, and then he won't even want to go out. Crowley grabs a jacket and decides to walk. He can always get a taxi if it's too far. 

It's not until he gets to the lobby that he realises he has his phone and his Visa, but no key. He has a clear memory of picking his spare key up and placing it on the glass hall table. So he wouldn't forget it. That worked wonderfully, didn't it?

Then it occurs to Crowley that he does know someone who can pick his door lock.

Grinning, Crowley heads back to the lift.

Aziraphale calls out, "Coming!" after the first knock. It gives Crowley enough time to lounge against the wall, arms folded casually when the door opens.

"Oh, Anthony," Aziraphale says warmly. He's wearing another bow tie. Still tartan, but this one is more blue and violet than tan. The same waistcoat and coat combination, worn wool that looks soft to the touch.

Crowley peers over his sunglasses. "You can just call me Crowley. Everyone does."

"Would you prefer it?" Aziraphale asks carefully and then he looks down and his eyebrows jump up. "Oh," he says faintly, staring at Crowley's thighs.

Good to know his gaydar is still reliable. "I was hoping you could do me a favour."

"You were?" Aziraphale asks his knees. He swallows and drags his eyes back to Crowley's face. Crowley's not imagining the blush on those round cheeks. "What sort of favour?"

"Since you were so good with your hands last time," Crowley says slowly, relishing the way Aziraphale's blue eyes go wide, "I was hoping you could let me back into my flat. I've locked the keys inside."

"Oh, of course. Step in and let me get my kit."

Aziraphale dresses like a cross between a Dickensian gentleman and an old comfortable sofa. His flat is the same. There are warm pools of golden light from lamps on multiple tables. There's two large armchairs and a well upholstered sofa in faded cream with pale pink roses. Overlapping knitted lap rugs hang over the back of the sofa, as if both the sofa and its owner dress in layers. There are books on the coffee table -- and every other table -- and knickknacks along the mantelpiece. No TV in the room at all.

It completely ignores interior design and is as stylish as someone's Nan's tea cosy. The kind of room Dickens would describe as warm and welcoming. It makes you want to curl up with a good book and a mug of cocoa, and Crowley isn't a big fan of either of those things.

Aziraphale returns, brandishing the little floral kit with pride. "Here we go."

Crowley nearly says something sarcastic about Aziraphale's decorating style, but he would like to get his keys without calling a locksmith. Nodding, he follows Aziraphale back to the lift.

It's inconveniently sexy seeing Aziraphale break in. He's fussy and fastidious as he unzips the kit. He carefully chooses two metal pins that look identical to Crowley. Then he slides them into the lock with the sort of confidence that anyone would find attractive. A few careful twists of his fingers and a frown of concentration that looks a little smug on that soft face, and Crowley's door opens.

Aziraphale slides the pins back into the kit, zips it all up, and then stands. He bends over to brush non-existent dirt off his knees. "Nice and easy."

"Not exactly living up to your namesake," Crowley replies because he needs to say something while he's checking out the lush curve of Aziraphale's arse. "Can't imagine angels picking locks."

"Saint Baldomer," Aziraphale replies, standing up as Crowley pretends he wasn't staring. "If there's a patron saint of locksmiths and escape artists, there could be a guardian angel too."

Crowley shrugs and steps inside, holding the door open. "This time, you get an invitation," he says with a wave of his wrist.

Aziraphale gives him a look that's a little chiding and a little amused, but he steps inside. He's seen the flat before, of course, but he still glances around the room and says, "It's delightfully modern." He nearly makes it sound like a compliment.

Crowley likes his place. He likes the high ceilings and the sparse concrete walls. This is a flat that doesn't lie about what it is: it's a concrete tower, a marvel of modern engineering. It's proof that people have gone from stone walls and mud huts to penthouses in the sky.

"Wine?" Crowley offers.

"Oh, I probably shouldn't," Aziraphale says, eyeing the black leather sofa with distrust.

Just because Crowley can appreciate the aesthetics of brutalism doesn't mean he wants uncomfortable furniture. That particular sofa is latex foam: heavy as hell to move but more comfortable than some people's beds. "It's a 2005 Margaux," Crowley says, holding up the bottle.

Aziraphale lights up immediately. "In that case, yes, please. That's a very nice year."

Crowley pours them each a glass and decides to leave the bottle out on the counter. In plain sight, hopefully tempting Aziraphale to a second glass.

He settles on the sofa, two glasses in his hands. Aziraphale sits warily next to him, giving a little wiggle into the seat when he feels the comfort. Crowley smirks at him, and hands over his glass.

Aziraphale brings the glass up to his nose and closes his eyes as he breathes it in. His first sip is small and cautious, but he gives a little approving hum as he swallows. "My dear, that is delightful."

"Somehow, I'm not surprised you know your wines," Crowley says, telling himself that Aziraphale is the type of public school graduate to habitually call people dear and old boy. It's a vocal tic, not an endearment.

"Really? I'm endlessly surprised that people don't know them. Those people who don't like wine because they've never tried one that costs over twenty pounds. Or people who buy the most expensive bottles and have no intention of ever drinking it."

"You don't believe in investing in wine?" Crowley asks, and is treated to a ten minute analysis of why Aziraphale believes indulgences should be enjoyed, not purchased and hoarded.

"It's the experience," he says earnestly, taking another delicate sip. "The value should be in the memory, the enjoyment of that particular moment. Not in the cost you paid or the price it might fetch now. It's such a waste."

And somehow, somehow, Crowley finds himself talking about the Bentley. It's fantastically stylish but he knows the cost of upkeep is a pure indulgence. But he loves driving it, even in London's horrid traffic, and sometimes that pleasure is worth more than the money wasted, right?

"The old black car in our car park? It belongs to you?" 

"That's the one," Crowley says, pouring himself another glass of wine. That's his third tonight but it's not like he's planning to drive to the club.

"It's so glossy. Really, it's quite magnificent."

There's a warm flush of pleasure at Aziraphale's genuine praise. "I could take you for a ride."

"That would be lovely." Aziraphale empties his glass with one last swallow. He frowns at his empty glass, and Crowley reaches for the bottle, offering to pour another. Aziraphale's smile is joyous, bright flash of teeth and eyes crinkling at the corners.

Crowley leans closer, catching Aziraphale's cologne as he reaches over him with the bottle. It's airy and light, with a slight hint of florals. Crowley stops himself from leaning in for a better whiff.

He watches Aziraphale's glass as he pours. "So what plans did I interrupt tonight?"

"Plans?" Aziraphale echoes with a judgemental frown. "It's nearly midnight."

Crowley doesn't say it's midnight on a Saturday in London: the night's only starting. "You were dressed. Don't try to pretend you were already curled up in bed for the night."

"Well, no, but I don't tend to sleep much. Or sleep well, I suppose. Insomnia, you know." Aziraphale shrugs uncomfortably so Crowley doesn't say anything. "But I was reading a good book and thinking about making cocoa."

Crowley has to bite his cheek not to laugh or say something outright rude. He takes a long drink of wine instead of saying anything.

"And you? Where were you coming back from?"

Crowley sprawls back on the sofa, arms wide. In jeans this tight, sprawling is the most comfortable way to sit. "I was heading out for the evening."

"At midnight? Where to?" Aziraphale seems genuinely confused by the idea, and then says, "Oh, to a discotheque?"

"It's not the '70s. Nobody says discotheque."

"So what do they say?"

"Nightclub," Crowley says slowly. "You go out to a club."

"To dance?" Aziraphale asks as if he's not entirely sure of the concept. Crowley suddenly wonders if he's ever stepped inside one.

"To drink in dim lighting. To wear your tightest clothes and pull a total stranger. To have fun."

"I believe you and I have very different definitions of fun," Aziraphale says primly. He even sits up a little straighter as he says it, one hand perched modestly on his closed knees.

"Well, it's not cocoa and a good book." Crowley places his half-full glass on the coffee table, and leans in close enough to breathe in Aziraphale's cologne again. "But maybe you should try it. Take a stranger to bed, see how it feels."

Crowley runs his tongue over his lower lip, and Aziraphale's eyes flick down to follow the movement. "I don't even know you."

"You could. Biblically."

"You don't know me," Aziraphale says faintly but he doesn't move away. He doesn't lean back into the sofa or put a hand up to stop Crowley's advance.

"Sex with a stranger," Crowley murmurs, shifting closer to see when Aziraphale will pull back. "Not knowing each other is part of the deal."

"It could be," Aziraphale sucks in a breath, continues softly, "awkward."

"Awkward?" Crowley mocks. "I'm very good. You'd be amazed what I can do with my--"

"The next morning, I mean," Aziraphale interrupts. "We live in the same building, it could be… Awkward."

It's like presenting a tender at work. There's always that moment in the meeting, that pause where everything is going well and you can feel how close that final yes is. Where they only need a little more convincing to say what the hell and give it a try. "No strings."

"No strings?"

"Just sex. Friends with benefits. No, strangers with benefits. Well, neighbours with benefits, really. We sleep together tonight, and in the morning, go back to our own lives. No big deal."

Now Aziraphale pulls back, holding his wine glass between them like a shield. "How much wine have you had? That seems like the sort of scheme that only makes sense when you're too drunk to think clearly."

"Two," Crowley says and then remembers the glass on the table, "and a half. Not enough to make stupid choices. And it's not a stupid idea, it's efficient."

"Efficient?"

Crowley is naturally lazy, but it's a good thing. He makes his living by asking questions and working out the tasks he wouldn't bother doing because they make no difference in the end. Efficiency is just a clever way of saying the least effort necessary to get the right results.

"It's efficient. Saves me going all the way out to a club just to stand around for hours to take someone home."

"Very flattering." Aziraphale's tone is dry but there's an amused spark in his eyes.

"Think about it." Crowley guides Aziraphale's wine glass out of the way and leans across Aziraphale, hovers over him and breathes right into his ear. "I could spend those hours sucking you off until you screamed."

Belatedly, Crowley wonders if he might have had too much after all. That's so forward that Aziraphale will probably walk out the door and never talk to him again.

But Aziraphale drops a hand to Crowley's shoulder and says calmly, "I don't think I'd scream."

Cupping Aziraphale's jaw, Crowley runs his thumb along Aziraphale's bottom lip. Drag of skin beneath his fingertip, soft mouth falling open, warm breaths against his hand. An unexpectedly clear yes.

"Not a screamer, huh?" Crowley says softly. "I bet you curse, then. Swear like a sailor."

From the deep flush on Aziraphale's cheeks, Crowley's probably right. But Aziraphale just says, "Only one way to find out," and then pushes his wine away on the coffee table. He slides a hand through the hair at the nape of Crowley's neck, and then pulls Crowley forward into a kiss. Shallow kisses at first, all soft parted lips and trying not to bump noses, and then it's open mouthed and chasing the taste of wine.

Aziraphale's hand tightens in Crowley's hair, tugging in the best way and Crowley groans. He has to curl his spine into a C to keep kissing Aziraphale and give his hands enough space to work that bow tie free. He freezes at Aziraphale's collar when Aziraphale catches his lower lip between his teeth, tugging just enough that Crowley's hips twitch forward into empty air.

He tries to get Aziraphale's waistcoat undone, but there are too many buttons and Aziraphale keeps kissing him like he doesn't even care about getting naked. Like he could spend all night doing this, hand in Crowley's hair holding him right where he wants him. It's a dizzying amount of attention.

Crowley retaliates by rucking up the waistcoat and pulling Aziraphale's belt undone. Unzipping his fly and sliding a hand around his cock.

Aziraphale drops his head back with a breathy little gasp. "Oh, um, bed? Perhaps bed?" 

"Nah," Crowley says, looking down as he pulls Aziraphale's cock free. He's hard, flushed red and delightfully thick. "Right here."

"Here?" Aziraphale repeats, so easily scandalized.

Crowley shrugs off his jacket and bundles it on the floor. There are times when a good thick rug would come in handy, but it would spoil the look of the room. His jacket will have to do. Crowley drops to his knees in front of the sofa, pushing Aziraphale's thighs apart and leaning over his cock.

He looks up and waits until Aziraphale meets his gaze before he opens his mouth and sucks. Crowley is good at this. He's good at breathing through his nose and using his tongue. More than that, he likes it. He likes the stretch on his jaw, his lips tight around Aziraphale's cock. He likes the salty taste and the rub of it against his cheek. He likes that overwhelming feeling of pushing past his gag reflex, swallowing until he can feel Aziraphale's cock at the back of his throat.

More than that, he likes being right. He hears Aziraphale curse as he first swallows him deep -- a litany of "shit, shit, fuck," -- and when he pulls back to tongue around the head, to suck and press against that sweet tangle of nerves, he hears, "Oh, bloody hell, fuck."

All that proper pronunciation curled around swear words, those soft hands twisted in his hair and holding tight. The feeling of power when Crowley swallows him down deep and Aziraphale's voice breaks in the middle of cursing. Crowley's cock is throbbing painfully in his unforgiving jeans, and the only thing that could make this hotter is if Aziraphale would move his hips and fuck Crowley's mouth. But Crowley's a bit too busy to say that right now.

"Anthony, fuck, Anthony--" and it's the urgent tone that gives Crowley warning to pull back and close his eyes, to use his hand to tug Aziraphale's cock until he comes, groaning and shooting warm across Crowley's cheek.

When Crowley opens his eyes, Aziraphale is sprawled back on the black sofa, flushed and sweaty. Bow tie hanging undone but shirt and waistcoat still buttoned. Crowley admires the sight for a moment, and then uses the sleeve of his shirt to wipe his face.

He might as well take the shirt off, honestly. The buttons are easy but he has to undo his jeans to tug the rest of it out.

"I'm amazed you can breathe in those," Aziraphale murmurs from the sofa.

"Breathing really isn't the point."

Aziraphale raises both brows. "Clearly, access isn't either. How in the world do you deal with them if you do go home with someone?"

Crowley's first instinct is to say that hooking up doesn't necessarily mean going home with them: alleys and seedy bathrooms are always options. Thankfully, his brain stops his mouth from saying that.

He slides his hands down his hips, catching the waistband of the jeans with his thumbs. "Like this," he says and pushes the jeans and pants down two inches. Not low enough to show anything, but there's no modesty or mystery left.

"Come up here," Aziraphale says, patting the sofa to either side of him, "and show me again."

Crowley gets to his feet and drops his shirt on the sofa. He rests one knee to the outside of Aziraphale's legs and then swings the other knee over to kneel astride him. "It's very easy," he says, sliding his hands down the front of his hips, watching Aziraphale follow the motion carefully. "Just a simple push."

He demonstrates. Pushes the fabric down, keeps pushing until his cock stands free, the jeans and pants caught at the very tops of his thighs. To be honest, that's as far as that trick works. To get the jeans off any further, he'd probably have to bend over and tug them down from the calves, but he's not going to admit that.

Aziraphale reaches out and settles a hand against Crowley's side. It's not Crowley's first choice of places to touch, but Aziraphale drags his fingertips over Crowley's ribs and then runs his palms along the flat stretch of stomach. 

Just as Crowley's about to suggest they hurry things up, Aziraphale sighs and says, "You're a work of art, my dear."

Crowley blinks. It's too earnest to be a pickup line, and too odd to be one of those bits of porn dialogue that gets repeated ad nauseam. ("Oh, you're so big" and "give it to me" are two phrases so terribly unoriginal they're almost a turnoff.)

"Thank you," Crowley says dubiously, uncertain of what else he can say to that.

Aziraphale smiles at him, and then smooths his hands up Crowley's chest, across his shoulders and down his biceps. Another slow sweep down and Crowley figures he might have misread this. He hadn't picked Aziraphale as the kind of guy to only be interested in sex until he came, but he's been wrong before. And it's not as if Crowley doesn't have a perfectly functioning right hand and a lifetime of experience.

He reaches down for his cock and closes his eyes. He was so turned on a few minutes ago that this won't take long. He thinks about the solid thighs beneath him, the warm palms on his sides. The ache in his jaw and the sharp tug on his hair while his lips were stretched around Aziraphale's cock.

He keeps the strokes fast and hard, enough to get off quickly. When he opens his eyes, Aziraphale's watching him, staring at his hand, lower lip caught between his teeth. 

"You really are a sight," he says and then his hand wraps around Crowley's, stroking with him. Crowley lets out a groan but he doesn't know if it's for that or the sudden tug to his hair, pulling him up and back. Crowley feels his hips snapping forward, thrusting into their shared grip.

Aziraphale pushes two fingers against his lips, and then past his lips, pressing against his tongue as Crowley sucks. It's too much, the fingers in his mouth and the hand on his cock and the way Aziraphale keeps watching him, like he's trying to memorize every twist of Crowley's body.

Crowley grabs at his shirt with his free hand, shoves it between them just in time to save Aziraphale's waistcoat as he comes, shuddering and panting. He collapses forward, head dropping to Aziraphale's shoulder. He breathes in and out, and doesn't think past that.

It's Aziraphale who speaks first. "So this neighbours with benefits," he says. "Does that mean one stays the night?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

Crowley doesn't lift his head. Not yet. "If you want to. If you have to get up early for a meeting tomorrow. If you had a book downstairs you desperately want to finish."

"Now that you mention it…"

"You can stay if you want," Crowley says, sitting up and considering standing sometime soon. "But you don't have to. No hard feelings either way."

Aziraphale glances at the bedroom and for a moment, Crowley thinks he will stay. Then he says, "I actually do have a good book waiting for me," so Crowley flops over to the other end of the sofa.

***

After a Sunday of sloth, the rest of Crowley's week is busy enough to stop him thinking about Aziraphale. Occasionally, he might find himself smirking -- remembering the taste of skin, fingers in his hair and the sweet sound of broken gasps -- but when Anathema gives him a questioning look, he glares at her until she turns back to her work. 

He's not especially surprised when the current project goes completely pear-shaped. Stupid clients are par for the course, but for once he doesn't yell about the client's pathetic excuse for an IT department. He mutters under his breath about their amazing idiocy, but his good mood returns surprisingly quickly.

He lasts until the end of the second week before he starts stopping the lift at the third floor again. Crowley doesn't expect it to work, but he's always been a little bit of an optimist. Willing to try, even if the odds are against him.

What he needs is an excuse, he thinks. Something casual, no obligations implied. On Sunday night, he gets the brilliant idea to check online wine auctions and wastes away a few hours on the sofa, searching on his phone while the TV plays old sitcoms in the background. Anything too rare or expensive would be trying too hard. Anything you could buy down at the local bottle shop wouldn't be enough of an excuse. He needs something rare enough that Aziraphale would be bribed, but not something that looks like Crowley put any effort into it.

It's a hard range to find.

Crowley's still looking on Monday morning, flicking through options on his phone as he stands alone in the lift. He presses the third floor button, and glances up when the doors open, expecting the empty corridor. Then Aziraphale's door moves so Crowley pushes and holds the door open button.

Aziraphale walks out the door, keys in one hand and a worn leather satchel in the other. The brown leather is so faded and distressed that it's probably older than Aziraphale himself.

Crowley keeps his finger on the door open button and ignores the irritated ding of the lift. He leans into the wall a little, waiting to smile at Aziraphale when he looks over, but Aziraphale takes his sweet time getting the bag's strap on his shoulder, and checking his keys. He still hasn't closed the door, and Crowley understands why when a tall, handsome man steps out behind him.

It's twenty past seven in the morning. Crowley thinks back to Aziraphale's dowdy living room, trying to remember if there was any sign of someone else living there. He takes a good look at the dark-haired Ken doll standing beside Aziraphale, the well-cut grey suit hanging from wide shoulders, the pale cashmere scarf wrapped neatly around his throat. Crowley can't imagine a man like that living in the permanent clutter of Aziraphale's flat.

Crowley finds himself frowning and quickly smoothes his face into a tight smile. It's just in time for Aziraphale to finish locking his door and look over at the lift.

Aziraphale looks surprised to see him and maybe a little disconcerted. Then he plasters on the same polite smile Crowley's wearing and shoos his guest towards the lift.

"Ah, Anthony," Aziraphale says awkwardly, "how kind of you to hold the lift for us."

A smarter man would have released the button before he was seen, Crowley thinks. Behind his sunglasses, he rolls his eyes. Thinking of that now doesn't help anyone.

"A friend of yours, Aziraphale?" the American asks. Somehow, the accent makes the whole thing worse. He's already got the square jaw and good bone structure that belongs on a TV screen; he doesn't need to sound like he's stepped out of a Hollywood film as well.

Crowley resists the urge to stand up straight and see who's taller. "Anthony J Crowley," he says, defiantly slouching against the wall.

"Anthony, this is Gabriel. Gabriel, Anthony lives upstairs." Aziraphale gives a polite nod to each of them. "His door looks a lot like mine."

Gabriel's expression doesn't shift, but Crowley can't help smiling at the inside joke. Aziraphale smiles back at him, and Crowley feels his bad mood dissipating. He can't be jealous that Aziraphale has a sex life. It's hypocritical, and worse than that, it's tedious. Crowley is not the guy who worries about labels and fitting into square boxes.

And whatever this is with Gabriel, it can't be too serious. Not judging by the coy glances Aziraphale keeps shooting at him, smiling whenever he catches Crowley's gaze and then looking away. Only to look back again a moment later and find Crowley watching him and trying not to grin.

Gabriel's got his head bowed over his phone. He doesn't look up until the lift dings open at the ground floor. "I'll get a cab for us," Gabriel declares, and then strides outside.

"Taxi," Aziraphale mutters under his breath, shaking his head as he steps out of the lift.

Crowley snorts. "A little too American?"

"A little something," Aziraphale replies waspishly. Then he sighs and glances over his shoulder to Gabriel waving at traffic. "Gabriel does have his good points, but not first thing on a Monday."

Crowley could leave it there. Could say goodbye and walk over to his Bentley, but... well. He has been looking for an excuse to talk to Aziraphale again. It seems silly to walk away now. "Well, if you're ever craving some solid British conversation, you know where I live."

"British conversation?" Aziraphale mocks. "What would that entail?"

"A lot of complaining about the weather. Talking about the right way to pour tea. Complaining about the number of foreigners when you go to Spain on holiday."

Aziraphale giggles like a schoolboy. It should not be appealing, but there's something so ridiculous and honest about him that Crowley finds himself smiling in return. They stand there, smiling at each other, until an ear-piercing whistle makes them both turn toward the door.

"Aziraphale," Gabriel yells out, "we have a cab."

"Taxi," Aziraphale mouths silently as soon as Gabriel's back is turned. He seems apologetic when he says, "I am sorry, but I have to go. It was nice to see you, even if the circumstances weren't quite ideal, and--"

"Don't make it awkward," Crowley says, catching Aziraphale's gaze over the top of his sunglasses. "It was good seeing you, too."

***

Crowley does find the perfect bottle of wine that week. A 2009 Le Pin: a good Bordeaux but not terribly rare, perfect for sharing with a friend. If he had Aziraphale's number he'd text a casual invitation. Instead, he has no choice but to go downstairs and knock on Aziraphale's door.

He changes his shirt three times before he leaves his flat wearing black trousers (skinny jeans would look too obvious, his dark wash denim might look too casual), a black t-shirt and low-cut waistcoat. He eyes his reflection in the mirror to make sure it looks like he's meeting friends at a cafe for brunch rather than dressing for a blind date. He nearly wears flip flops, and then decides the boots would be best.

He remembers his keys and his phone. Which is just as well when he gets in the lift and realises he's forgotten the bottle of wine. He goes back, gets the wine and tries it all again.

He knocks on the door and listens for the sound of footsteps. There's a possibility Aziraphale might have a guest -- even the smug Gabriel -- and in that case, Crowley is here as a friend, willing to share his rather nice wine. He will be friendly and charming, and still get to enjoy a good drink.

When Aziraphale opens the door, there's no one else in sight. Crowley feels himself relax. He can understand the physical appeal of Gabriel, but he can't imagine sitting around and wanting to chat with the man.

"Anthony," Aziraphale says warmly, "what a delightful surprise."

Crowley holds up the wine with three fingers around the neck of the bottle. "I recently came across this. Seemed a shame not to share."

Aziraphale barely glances at the bottle. "Le Pin? What year?"

"2009."

"You know," Aziraphale says, leaning into the corridor like he's about to share a secret, "I've got the 2006 tucked away. We should compare them."

Crowley grins. "We should."

They start with modest, reasonable glasses of each, but they're both very good wines and it's impossible to choose a favourite. Crowley's partial to the 2009, but Aziraphale insists on a proper glass of each, and somehow they end up sprawled on Aziraphale's sofa talking about gibbons. They were talking about electronic readers and the environment, and disappearing rainforests. ("They can't just disappear," Aziraphale had said, helping himself to another glass, "I mean, someone has to know where they are.")

A few things have become very obvious to Crowley. Firstly, Aziraphale's sofa might be made of hungry pillows -- it's soft and squishy, and if you sit the wrong way, it tries to eat you whole. Secondly, neither of them knows which monkeys live in rainforests but they're both sure there should be some kind of monkey that knows where it left its rainforest.

Thirdly, Aziraphale selfishly poured the last of the wine. Crowley waves the empty bottle back and forth. "That," he says pointedly, staring at the full glass on Aziraphale's hand, "was the last glass."

Aziraphale frowns at him, cradling his glass closer to his chest. "So sorry, dear boy." He doesn't make any offer to share.

"That's very selfish for an angel."

"It's a, um, you know," Aziraphale says carefully. "A thing. Not a thing."

"Angels are a thing."

"Namesake!" Aziraphale says, pointing his finger across at Crowley. "It's a namesake, not what I am. Not… Not a definition."

Crowley considers it for a moment. "You're definitely an angel. The angel of stealing the wine."

Drawing himself up, Aziraphale tucks his chin in and says seriously, "Angels don't steal." After this pearl of wisdom, he collapses back into the sofa and waves a hand towards the kitchen door. "There's more wine in the pantry. If you want it."

The kitchen door looks very far away. And Crowley's very comfortable, even if he's being slowly consumed by cushions. He wriggles onto the fabric a little more and finds himself keening sideways. Aziraphale's shoulder is right there and it's a perfect height to lean on. Crowley rests his head on it gratefully. He definitely doesn't need any more wine. "I think I'm good."

"Do you? I mean, how can you be sure? It's so hard to really know what's…" Aziraphale trails off, apparently just noticing that Crowley's head is leaning on his shoulder. He blinks at him and Crowley grins back. "You were talking about more wine."

"Yes, angel."

Aziraphale pulls a face at the term: it's an expression too drunk to be truly annoyed. "I do have a name, you know."

"Azriph-- Ariza--" No, that's not it. Crowley shakes his head and gets his misbehaving tongue under control. "Aziraphale. Angel of stolen wines."

Crowley closes his eyes, enjoying the softness of Aziraphale's waistcoat beneath his cheek. He listens to Aziraphale swallow. There's a clink of the glass being placed on the table. Crowley pulls his knees up to be a little more comfortable. He's warm, drifting to the sound of Aziraphale breathing. 

"How are you going to get home?" Aziraphale asks and Crowley startles awake.

He twists until his head is mostly resting on the back of the sofa, even if his temple is still touching Aziraphale's shoulder. "It's only two floors away. I'll just, you know," he says, waving his hands in circles.

"Perform a magic trick?"

"Walk." Crowley thinks for a minute. He is very drunk. Drunk enough that he doesn't want to stand up and test it. "Or crawl. It's not far."

"Pshaw," Aziraphale says.

"No one says that."

"I do. So people do. Obviously." After making that solid logical point, Aziraphale suddenly sits up, dislodging Crowley from his shoulder. "Nibbles! I have cheese."

Crowley considers it carefully. He scratches his neck. "I could eat."

"It's a very good Edam," Aziraphale says, eyes wide and gleaming at the thought. "And I'm sure I have some Brie and cheddar too. And some spiced fig jam."

When Crowley stands up, the room sways uncertainly beneath his feet. Aziraphale loops an arm in his and together they walk -- slowly but relatively steady -- to the kitchen. Crowley leans against the counter while Aziraphale putters around, pulling out crackers and various cheeses from the fridge. He arranges the whole thing on a tray, shooting Crowley an indulgent look when Crowley steals a cherry tomato.

"Sweet," Crowley says, licking the last spill of juice from his fingers.

There's a slow bloom of heat in Aziraphale's gaze, but he only says, "Would you like more wine?"

Crowley shakes his head. He's not sure he'd be upright without something to lean on at the moment. "I've had enough for a while."

"Glass of water?"

They walk carefully back to the sofa, Aziraphale carrying food and Crowley carrying glasses of water. He likes the tall glass in his hand. It gives him something to toy with while Aziraphale fastidiously cuts wedges of cheese and then takes careful bites. Crowley finds himself sliding further down into the cushions, content with the quiet. He curls sideways on the sofa, finding just enough space to draw his knees up. There are soft lap rugs under his cheek and the worn upholstery is yielding and warm under his fingers. His eyes drift shut.

"You should go to bed, my dear."

Crowley opens his eyes, watches Aziraphale smear fig jam and brie onto a cracker. "You should take me to bed," he replies. 

After all, why else did he come? Why did he spend hours finding the right bottle of wine to tempt Aziraphale into letting him in? Forget Gabriel. Forget all the ways Aziraphale is maddeningly out of touch with the modern world. Forget all the reasons why this is a bad idea. Crowley wants those fingers in his hair again. He wants to peel those layers of clothes off Aziraphale and discover the pale skin underneath. He wants to feel the pressure on his knees and the stretch of his lips and the weight of Aziraphale's cock on his tongue.

"I wouldn't want to take advantage," Aziraphale says earnestly. Even as his hand lands on Crowley's knee and gives a small squeeze.

"You drank more than I did."

"Oh," Aziraphale says brightly, "so I did. Aren't you worried about taking advantage?"

"No." Crowley pushes himself off the sofa, kneels up and leans over Aziraphale. "Take me to bed."

When he leans forward to kiss Aziraphale, he tastes the bite of cheddar and the sweetness of figs, a rich hint of red wine. Aziraphale's gentle hands curl around his cheeks, cupping his face tenderly. Crowley shuffles closer, wanting to plaster himself against Aziraphale's body, but he misjudges the width of the sofa and his knee slides out from under him. Aziraphale clutches him around the waist, and it's the only thing that stops him from overbalancing and landing on the floor.

Laughing, Aziraphale says, "You've made your point. Let's go to bed."

***

When Crowley wakes up the next morning, the first thing he does is take stock. There are good things: he's in a warm, supportive bed, the room is still dark enough to justify not getting up yet, and there's the comforting weight of an arm resting across his back.

On the other hand: his head is pounding, his mouth feels like a pub's carpet, and the idea of sitting up is too horrific to think about. And judging by the even snores behind him, Aziraphale's fast asleep. Might as well stay in bed, at least until Aziraphale wakes up. Until then, Crowley can close his eyes and breathe in time with the snoring. He knows he won't fall back asleep but he doesn't have to face the day yet.

It gives him time to think about last night. The second bottle of wine was a bad idea. A few drinks together, a bit of flirting, and then sex. That's how the night was supposed to go. Instead, he drank enough to have a hangover and by the time he got into Aziraphale's bed, they were both too far gone for anything beyond a few lazy kisses. The spirit was willing but the flesh was pickled.

The weird thing was that he'd enjoyed it. It had been… nice. Nice to drink more than he should have and have stupid drunk discussions. He liked sitting on Aziraphale's sad old sofa, watching Aziraphale's hands wave and his face light up as he tried to make a point. And even if they'd both swayed as they got undressed, it had been nice crawling into bed in only his underwear, sharing a pillow with Aziraphale. Knees touching and arms around each other, sharing shallow, sleepy kisses.

Crowley doesn't do relationships. He prefers sticking to things he's good at, like smirking over a shared drink and hooking up with strangers. He worked out years ago that relationships… He always wants too much and too fast. Other people need time and space; they don't fall as hard as he does.

Crowley gets it. Of course, he does. He likes being stylish, likes having the charm and swagger to pull it off, but the men attracted to that are not looking for a needy, obsessive boyfriend. They're expecting someone cool and suave, someone who doesn't stay too long the next morning and doesn't expect a phone call. Someone who'll smile if they run into each other a few months later, but won't expect anything more.

Crowley knows he's playing with fire. He already knows Aziraphale's seeing Gabriel, and while Crowley has style and flair, Gabriel is the objective ideal of handsome. He's tall and broad, and has that whole air of forthright confidence, of upstanding certainty, that seems far more suited to Aziraphale. It's going to be uncomfortable if Crowley allows his heart to be bruised by someone he'll keep seeing around the place.

There's a groan behind him as Aziraphale wakes up. "Ergh," Aziraphale says succinctly.

"I know," Crowley agrees. "Two bottles of wine on an empty stomach was a bad idea."

Aziraphale buries his nose into Crowley's shoulder. His arm wraps around Crowley's chest to hold him there. "Less talking, more sleeping."

Crowley curls back into the body pressed against his back, relaxing into the heat of Aziraphale's bare skin on his. "Yes, angel," he says dutifully and gets a kiss pressed to his shoulder.

***

When Crowley thinks back on the weekend, he can't help grinning. Saturday night had been fun, even if he'd overindulged. Sunday, Aziraphale had eventually got up to make breakfast, and then insisted on coming back to bed with it. Crowley had been more enthusiastic about the aspirin and coffee than the baked beans on toast, but he did feel better after eating.

Then Aziraphale had asked if he had plans for the day and when their afternoons were both free, he'd insisted on a little more of a lie-in. Which had turned from dozing in Aziraphale's arms to soft kisses on his shoulder and slow, messy handjobs. He remembers burying his head in Aziraphale's shoulder, Aziraphale's arm steady around his back and his other hand holding on to Crowley's thigh as Crowley stroked their cocks together. The body heat trapped under the duvet, sweltering until Aziraphale pushed it away. Aziraphale swearing softly under his breath as he got closer.

Yeah, Crowley thinks, a good weekend. Good enough to make him smirk at the client's stupidity and find a way to do it better. Good enough that when he runs into Gabriel on Thursday morning, he manages to smile and wish him good morning.

"Tony Crawley, wasn't it?" Gabriel says with a cheery nod. He seems too guileless to have done that on purpose.

"Close," Crowley replies as he holds the lift doors for Aziraphale, who had to run back into his flat for something. He did say to go ahead, but Crowley would rather not spend the ride alone with Gabriel. "Anthony. But most people call me Crowley."

"Crowley then," Gabriel says.

"Been in London long?" It seems like a good question, polite and a little interested.

"About five years, more or less. I go home for the holidays and occasionally for some publicity, but I'm usually here or Paris these days."

"Publicity?" He has the face for it, Crowley thinks, and then tells himself not to be petty.

"Book tours," Gabriel says as Aziraphale finally steps onto the lift. "That was how I met Aziraphale here."

"What? Oh, yes," Aziraphale mutters, rearranging things in that ancient satchel bag of his. "We got to talking and Gabriel offered to read my book."

Crowley turns to stare at Aziraphale, unreasonably gleeful at this tidbit. There's something about Aziraphale that just screams distracted author. "You wrote a book?" 

"Books, plural," Aziraphale corrects promptly. "Theological texts. All terribly dry, I'm afraid."

"I keep saying Aziraphale missed his calling," Gabriel says with utter sincerity. "He should have been a minister."

The horrified expression Aziraphale makes behind Gabriel's back says it all. "I really don't think I could handle the people side of it. There'd be a lot of dealing with people."

"Besides," Crowley drawls. "It's a lot more fun to talk about it than have to live by it."

***

Next time he sees Aziraphale, Crowley insists on swapping numbers. Aziraphale gives him a landline. "I have a mobile," he confesses when Crowley teases him, "but it's forever out of batteries or out of range. The blasted thing is unreliable except as a messaging service."

The following Saturday, Crowley calls instead of turning up on his doorstep. He has a bottle of wine at the ready -- another product of online buying -- but it's nice to call first.

"It's me," he says when Aziraphale answers the phone. "Do you have plans tonight?"

"Actually, I have a reservation at Sartoria. They do make the best tiramisu." Aziraphale pauses for a moment, then adds, "Why do you ask?"

"I was going to invite you round to share another bottle of wine." Before Crowley even says it, he knows it's pathetic. He knows that he should be aiming for available, not desperate. But he still says, "If your date goes badly, come over to mine. I'll still be up."

"Oh, it's not a date," Aziraphale says quickly. "It's only me. I just really like their desserts."

Crowley grins so hard he can feel his cheeks ache. "In that case, you should definitely come over afterwards."

"Or maybe…" Aziraphale trails off, leaves the sentence hanging there.

"Did you want me to come to yours?" Which is fine, Crowley thinks. He's not fussy on whose bed they use. "Just call when you're home. I can come to you."

"Or maybe you could come to dinner with me. I already have the table reserved and I'm sure you'd love their tiramisu."

Crowley almost asks, "Like a date?" but that's a stupid question. It's a meal followed by sex. It's friends with benefits. That's all. "Sure, angel. Want me to give you a ride there?"

"If we leave soon, we'd have time to walk there. Be a nice night for it."

***

Aziraphale doesn't like texting. However, he will happily send an email from his laptop, suggesting new restaurants to try. Crowley replies from his phone, suggesting Friday or Saturday night, or offering apologies when he's snowed under with other people's mediocrity.

They're not dating. They're two friends going Dutch, enjoying Aziraphale's endless knowledge of good restaurants. They'll split a bottle of wine or enjoy a few glasses of scotch -- or one memorable night, drink neon blue Tokyo Moons because Aziraphale liked the colour -- and talk over good food.

There are times when Crowley has to remind himself that it's not dating. When Aziraphale recounts a run-in with a fellow traveller on the underground, so sharp and catty that Crowley grins as Aziraphale brushes his fingers, saying, "Honestly, basic literacy should extend to both push and pull." Or when they stroll back arm in arm through Soho, and Aziraphale reminisces about the first time he discovered the area, late night screenings in less than reputable cinemas, just a hint of something forbidden and joyous in his smile. When they end up in someone's bed and Crowley lets himself read too much into how good it feels, or when half of Sunday is spent lying about mostly naked, hiding from the daylight together.

But it's not dating. Dating would be talk of commitment and those serious conversations to justify still being single and how many relationships ended in ugly ways and how much emotional baggage is stored just out of sight. It would be talking about families and future plans, and discussing how many compromises will be needed to make this work. Conversations about assets and acceptable suburbs and how many children or pets should be slotted into this picture.

Not conversations that start with Aziraphale staring off into space and saying, "You know, I rather like pears. I think they're an undervalued fruit."

"They're not as versatile as apples," Crowley says because he enjoys these winding, pointless conversations. The way Aziraphale will seriously discuss a topic with a gleam of mischief in his eye, as if daring Crowley to be the one to say it's absurd. "Fresh, baked, pureed, everyone loves an apple."

"Except doctors, according to colloquial wisdom." Aziraphale slips his hand over Crowley's arm, mindlessly affectionate even if it makes a few passing strangers scowl. "Surely you'd agree that pears are superior to oranges?"

***

The best part of having Aziraphale's contact details is that Crowley doesn't have to keep manufacturing ways to run into him. He can stop habitually pressing the third floor in the lift. Which is a relief since seeing Aziraphale on his way to work usually means seeing Gabriel, and Crowley likes Gabriel more as a concept he can ignore than someone he has to make small talk with.

Now there are occasional phone calls and frequent emails. The emails range from sweetly formal to an outraged one line saying, "WHY WOULD ANYONE DO THIS?" and a link to Etsy, where someone has carved out the insides of books to make miniature fairy rooms inside. 

Crowley gets to find out when Aziraphale's had a good day, which usually means getting his hands on some very old books. He learns the parts of his work that Aziraphale hates. (Anything to do with selling books, whether it's one that he's written or one of the dozens that he owns, that he swears he only bought for convenience and he’ll sell as soon as he's finished using it for research. Aziraphale hoards books like a crazy cat lady hoards felines, with the same level of affection and ferocious protection.) He gets to explore tiny little hole-in-the-wall cafes and high-priced restaurants and trendy bars. He gets to enjoy Aziraphale's boundless enthusiasm and wide blue eyes as he pushes a fork towards Crowley and says, "Oh, my dear, you really should try this."

Crowley's smart enough not to ask if Aziraphale's busy on weeknights. He gets Aziraphale on weekends and honestly, having the weekdays free means Crowley never has to apologise for getting caught up in a project or falling asleep before nine.

It's a good compromise. Left to his own devices, Crowley can be needy and demanding. The word "suffocating" has been thrown about. With Gabriel as a buffer, Crowley has a reason to give Aziraphale some space. When he reaches for the phone on a Wednesday night, wanting to laugh with Aziraphale over the stupidity of reality show contestants, it only takes him a few seconds to remember why he shouldn't call. To think about what he could be interrupting. To remind himself that just because he likes Aziraphale doesn't mean Aziraphale wants to hear from him constantly.

For once, Crowley's got this under control. He gets to have Aziraphale and he gets to have his freedom. He could bring strangers home every week if he wanted to. (He hasn't but the fact remains that he could.) He gets the fun of spending time with Aziraphale, the benefit of Aziraphale's single-minded focus and talented hands in bed, and he even gets that little thrill of knowing he's too cool to unthinkingly conform to traditional expectations. It's all good.

It's going well enough that when the lift stops at the third floor and opens to reveal Gabriel in a shiny, pale grey suit and Aziraphale yawning behind his hand, Crowley can't resist shooting Gabriel a smug grin.

Gabriel, monumental twit that he is, smiles back brightly. "Good morning." He pauses, thinking carefully. "Crowley?"

"Yes," Crowley drawls, taking a little too much pleasure in the way that Aziraphale rolls his eyes at Gabriel's earnest nod. "Morning, Gabe."

Gabriel's eyes narrow in annoyance, but his tone remains perky. "It's Gabriel." 

Crowley can't say why he does it; maybe it's the risk. Maybe it's the way Aziraphale tucks his head down, trying to hide the amusement on his face. Maybe it's his own inability to leave well enough alone. "Any plans for the weekend?"

Aziraphale shoots him a wary sideways glance. He doesn't look over at Gabriel. Crowley is petty enough to take pleasure in that.

"Actually," Gabriel says, "we had hoped to see The Sound of Music this Saturday, but there was a mix up with the tickets."

"Big fan of musicals?"

"Not really, no."

"So just The Sound of Music?" Crowley asks and Aziraphale turns his head to glare at him. Crowley grins back. "Is it the singing nuns? Or running away from Nazis?"

"I like _Climb Every Mountain_. It's good knowing God wants you to follow your dreams," Gabriel says without a trace of irony. Crowley's not sure anyone could achieve that level of earnest certainty without an American accent.

"It's never been my favourite Julie Andrews performance."

"Let me guess. Mary Poppins? All that London friendliness and family values?"

"Victor Victoria," Crowley says, although if he's honest, he does like Mary Poppins too. _Feed the Birds_ hits a sentimental weak spot and leaves him giving all his crusts to pigeons and ducks for the next week.

"I don't think I've seen that," Gabriel says as the lift dings open. As always, Aziraphale lets him walk off to flag a taxi and stays in the lobby, talking to Crowley.

It's a stupid thing to feel smug about.

"You're lucky he didn't start quoting lyrics at you," Aziraphale chides sharply. "Please don't encourage him."

"I'm not encouraging him," Crowley replies, a little more bitter than he should be. He takes a breath and reminds himself that he's got this. He has everything he wants and he's not going to screw it up by clinging and asking Aziraphale to choose. (He won't ask that. Aziraphale barely tolerates Gabriel in the mornings, but there must be a good reason why they keep seeing each other.)

Gabriel's piercing whistle rings out. Aziraphale rolls his eyes. "I have to go."

"I'll see you Friday, angel. Greek, right?"

"Oh, yes." It's the first smile this morning that seems real. "The reservation's at seven-thirty."

***

It's been the kind of horrendous day that should be a Monday. The fact that it's happened on a Friday only makes it worse. After the most frustrating type of client meeting -- the type where Crowley gleefully explains the business processes that need to change and the client point-blank refuses because "this is the way we've always done it" -- and getting stuck on the M25 for an hour, traffic finally clears enough for Crowley to get onto the A5 only for some absolute idiot to run a red light.

His Bentley is a glowering black beast of a car. How said idiot didn't see it amazes Crowley.

Yet the Honda Civic had sped into traffic and tried to drive through him. The one consolation Crowley has is the memory of watching that little red sedan crumple and go spinning sideways after the terrifying thump of impact. Serves it right.

(At the time, Crowley might have been too stunned to be vindictive. Too busy clenching the steering wheel and pulling over to think about anything more than "What the hell just happened?" and then shakily getting out of the car to check on the other driver. Too busy being glad there hadn't been anyone sitting in the crushed back seat of the Honda, that the other driver was white-faced and shaking but not otherwise hurt.)

But now that he's spent an hour waiting for police and calling insurance companies, he's calm enough to be vindictive about it. Especially since he's had time to see the dents on his beautiful car, the cracked headlight and the ugly scratches digging through the paintwork.

Leaning back on the bonnet of his poor Bentley, Crowley crosses his arms gingerly. Must have hit his left arm on something in the crash, he thinks, resisting the urge to check the time on his watch again. At this point, he's just waiting for the officer to finish taking his pointless notes and allow them to leave. He's already had the required argument with his insurers to insist that his car is only touched by the appropriate hands. He's called the restoration specialists out at Brentford and cajoled and threatened them into agreeing to work on the Bentley first thing Monday if he can get it there before four thirty.

By the time the officer has recorded all the boring details, the after-school traffic has started so Crowley spends the drive crawling along, wanting to set fire to every other car on the road. The throbbing ache in his arm is getting harder to ignore. Luckily, the Bentley's gear lever is to his right, but it's getting uncomfortable to hold the steering wheel with his left hand.

It occurs to Crowley that he probably shouldn't be driving right now. But his Bentley is damaged and he's not going to risk more from a tow truck. It's fine. He just needs to get to Brentford before they close, and then he can enjoy a nice relaxing cab ride to the nearest A&E.

Gritting his teeth, Crowley makes the last turn and thankfully turns off the engine. The Bentley isn't parked so much as sprawled across the asphalt, blocking in the other parked cars. Crowley pockets the keys and strides inside. The clock on the wall says four thirty-five but the man behind the counter takes one look at Crowley's expression and holds his hand out for the keys.

"Mr Crowley?" he asks, surprisingly timid despite the sheer bulk filling out his overalls.

"If you don't treat her with the respect she deserves, there will be consequences," Crowley snarls.

"We'll be in touch on Monday," the mechanic promises and Crowley heads outside to find a taxi.

***

For the first two hours in A&E, Crowley's hopeful. He's probably making a big deal out of nothing. With any luck, it will be nothing more than a sprain and a foolish waste of time. By the second hour of sitting in blue plastic chairs, his wrist is feeling worse and he's lost any optimism. He's not game to push his sleeve up and look, but the swelling gets bad enough that he has to take his watch off.

Not that he needs it. There's a red LED sign on the wall, estimating the wait time as three to four hours. That's when Crowley officially gives up hope of salvaging this day. He pulls out his phone and calls Aziraphale's number. With the luck he's having today, Aziraphale won't even be home.

Unsurprisingly, it rings out. Crowley's too tired to even curse. He sighs, opens his email with one hand. He's just started typing when a call from Aziraphale takes over his screen. 

"Angel?" Crowley says, answering. It's a stupid nickname, something he only gets away with because he can claim it's more of a taunt than an endearment.

"Anthony, did I just miss a call from you?"

"Yeah. Just calling to cancel tonight. I won't be able to make it."

Aziraphale makes a little noise of disappointment. "Does that mean your presentation went very well or very poorly?"

"The latter. Complete waste of three weeks of work."

"Oh, in that case, let me take you out and cheer you up," Aziraphale says warmly. "Or I could get a takeaway and come round to yours, help you drown your sorrows in company?"

Crowley has to close his eyes against how good that sounds. Today has been a right bastard of a day; curling up on the sofa with the TV on and Aziraphale's arm around him would be wonderful right now. "Love to, but I have no idea when I'll be home."

"Where are you?"

"West Middlesex Hospital," Crowley says with a sigh. It was the closest A&E, but right now he wishes he were closer to home. "I'm stuck in the emergency room. No idea how long I'll be."

"You're in hospital?" Aziraphale repeats carefully, as if he didn't quite catch that.

Belatedly, Crowley realises that Aziraphale might fret. Sure, his wrist hurts but it could be nothing. Nothing that warrants Aziraphale worrying, at least. "It's probably a sprained wrist. I'm just making sure."

"You poor thing," Aziraphale says, with the right amount of sympathy to make Crowley feel better. "You read dreadful things about those long waits. It could be hours."

Crowley looks around at the other tired, miserable faces in the waiting room. Given how few of them have been seen by a doctor, it's going to be a while. "Yeah."

"You'll miss dinner," Aziraphale says sadly. It's typical that Aziraphale would mourn the meal. It makes the whole thing feel normal.

"Maybe tomorrow--" Crowley stops, remembering Aziraphale mentioning he'd be busy most of this weekend. "You're spending the day in York tomorrow, checking those manuscripts. Email me, we'll do something next weekend."

In the background, there's the buzz of the intercom. "Oh, I think that's the taxi downstairs. He's early." Because Aziraphale had found a place where he wanted to try the cocktails. Because he'd said it was too far to walk and there was no point in Crowley driving when he'd be in no condition to drive them back. Because Aziraphale didn't trust Ubers or apps and only booked taxis through actual phone calls.

"Go deal with it," Crowley says. "Email me later."

Aziraphale ends the call with a polite, "Goodbye," and then Crowley's left on uncomfortable blue chairs, hating this whole stupid day. He didn't even get to tell Aziraphale about the Bentley. God knows how long that's going to take to fix. The entire body was handcrafted. You can't just find a spare part and slot it in.

Crowley fills in the time googling on his phone, looking at Bentleys that have been lovingly restored but lack the essential style of his girl. (It helps that his left hand is throbbing too much to use. Makes the process slower and forces him to focus on his one-handed typing.) He's maudlin enough to start looking through his own photos, basking in her former beauty.

It helps the next hour to pass. Crowley can't help eyeing the clock on the wall, wishing the seconds would tick by a little faster. He twists in his seat, trying to get comfortable and then spends some time watching the muted TV.

Someone walks over to him and clears their throat. Crowley doesn't even bother looking up. "We've already had this discussion. I'll sit how I like, thanks." If the nurses want to keep bothering him about sitting with his legs hooked over the armrest, they can hurry up and get him x-rayed.

"I think you'll need to sit up to eat, my dear." And there before him is Aziraphale. Aziraphale in his favourite tan coat -- although he has two others almost identically out of style -- and his neat bow tie, his baggy trousers and his threadbare waistcoat. A vision of hope and friendliness. His smile is bright and warm, and he lifts a plastic bag up high. "Slouching and Thai tends to end very badly for me."

Crowley scrambles upright in his chair. "What are you doing here?" 

"You said you were stuck here," Aziraphale says gently, sitting down beside him. "I didn't want you to be stuck here alone and hungry."

"Oh," Crowley says cleverly.

"You should try the som tam," Aziraphale says brightly. "Such an interesting way to eat papaya."

"You brought a picnic to the A&E?" The idea of Aziraphale coming so far out of his way, taking the time to bring food… Crowley's chest feels too small for the warmth flooding it. Crowley blinks quickly, before he can do something as sappy as tear up over takeaway. He doesn't have the heart to tell Aziraphale he's not supposed to eat until they've ruled out the distant possibility of surgery.

Aziraphale sits beside him and just the press of his shoulder against Crowley's makes the world more bearable. "You didn't tell me what happened."

"Someone hit the Bentley." Crowley leans into Aziraphale's comforting warmth and holds up his hands. On the right: wide palms and long fingers, hands he's always thought were quite elegant. On his left is a hand that looks like it was made of marshmallows. Like a pudgy baby, there are dimples where his knuckles should be. The palm has swollen up so much that he can't clench his fingers any more.

Aziraphale gives a gratifying little gasp. "Your hand!"

"Hence the trip to the A&E."

"And they've seen it?" Aziraphale asks, glaring at the nurses desk.

"It wasn't this bad when I came in."

Aziraphale shoots one more glare at the nurses and then turns to face Crowley. "Take your jacket off."

"That's not going to make this feel better." Getting undressed around Aziraphale usually makes Crowley feel a lot better, but this is the exception that proves the rule. "Ignorance is bliss, you know."

"Stand up and I'll help."

"Aziraphale," Crowley starts, trying to find a way to keep ignoring that hand as long as he can. If he doesn't see it, it might not be too bad, right?

"Now, Anthony." Aziraphale stands there, so matter of fact about it that Crowley feels foolish for arguing. He gets to his feet and starts shrugging his shoulders out of his jacket. "Let me." 

Aziraphale pulls the right sleeve free first and then he gently eases the left sleeve down with a hand tugging the cuff and the other holding the weight of the jacket. It still makes Crowley hiss through gritted teeth. Once it's off, Aziraphale very gently pushes the shirt out of the way and Crowley risks a look. His arm is swollen and the sleeve's seam has left a red imprint on the skin. There's an ugly aubergine bruise from his inner wrist to halfway up his forearm.

"I was right," Crowley says faintly. "That didn't make me feel better."

Aziraphale gathers the bag of food cartons and Crowley's jacket. "Come with me," he says and leads Crowley back to the nurses desk with a hand on his back.

"Excuse me," he says, polite and smiling, "I believe Anthony has been waiting hours for an x-ray. Is this true?"

A dark-haired nurse checks the computer screen. She's a different nurse from the one who checked Crowley in. "Anthony Crowley?" she asks. "Yes, likely sprain, possible fracture. Waiting for a scan."

"Right," Aziraphale says and there's no touch of his usual softness. That tone is pure steel. "This is not a sprain. Show her, Anthony."

Crowley holds out his left hand, bruise side up.

"If you take a seat in the waiting area, we will see him as soon as we can."

"That is a fracture," Aziraphale continues, all unyielding smile and politely determined insistence. Crowley's a little stunned. He'd never pictured lamblike Aziraphale as a protector, willing to stare down bureaucracy and heartless waiting times. "That needs an x-ray and an ice-pack for the swelling."

The nurse takes a long look at Aziraphale and clearly decides it's not a battle worth fighting. "I can update his triage notes. I can't do anything about the waiting time."

Aziraphale's smile does not waver. "Thank you, my dear."

***

Aziraphale offers to stand over the nurses station until they call Crowley's name, but that would be obnoxious and still wouldn't change the waiting time. Crowley appreciates the offer, but he's already having a terrible day. He doesn't need to make everyone else's day worse.

So it's back to the too-short chairs of the waiting room. While they wait, Crowley tells Aziraphale the details of the accident, barely embellishing the way that Honda skidded sideways after impact. Aziraphale makes an appropriately nasty comment about bad drivers on the road. Their Thai food goes cold on Aziraphale's lap, so Crowley tells him to go ahead and eat it. No point in both of them going hungry.

"It should be fine heated later," Aziraphale says with forced cheer. Crowley must be over-tired because the idea of Aziraphale skipping meals in solidarity leaves him blinking rapidly and turning his head away.

Eventually, Crowley's name gets called and they both get up. "Your partner can wait here," one of the technicians offers when he sees Aziraphale's expression of strained patience.

Aziraphale doesn't bat an eye at the assumption. He merely stands beside Crowley and says, "No, I'll be coming with Anthony. Lead the way." They follow the technician through a double door and down another bland corridor, and then Aziraphale stands guard outside while the machine quietly whirrs above Crowley.

There's more waiting before a doctor confirms it's fractured. Then a plaster cast and a script for strong painkillers (which Crowley initially refuses, but Aziraphale leans forward and says, "Are you sure, my dear? It can't hurt to get a script just in case," and Crowley agrees because he's tired and wants to go home). And then Aziraphale insists on going to the pharmacy to get the tablets, and that's another half hour of waiting.

The taxi home crawls through Friday night traffic, but Aziraphale pulls Crowley closer. He guides Crowley's head to his solid shoulder, and Crowley drifts to sleep to the driver's Turkish pop music and fingers stroking his hair. At home, Aziraphale opens the car door for him and offers a hand to steady him. He pays the driver and herds Crowley into the lift, and before Crowley knows it, he's standing before his own door.

Crowley feels in his pockets and then groans. "I left my keys in Brentford. With the Bentley."

"Not to worry, dear boy," Aziraphale says and guides Crowley back to the lift. He takes Crowley down to his flat and leads them straight to the bedroom, not even bothering to turn on the living room light. He helps Crowley pull off his boots and then strip down to underwear. Once Crowley's in bed, Aziraphale fetches a glass of water and the tablets; Crowley swallows them without complaint.

That's when it occurs to Crowley that Aziraphale could have offered to pick the lock on his flat. That he could be laying upstairs in his empty bed right now, instead of warm and comfortable, waiting for Aziraphale to get into bed.

The cast feels hard and heavy on his arm. It can't be comfortable to have in bed but Aziraphale tucks himself around it and around Crowley. With gentle fingers, he pushes the hair away from Crowley's forehead. "I'm sorry today was so horrid for you," he says softly.

"You made it better," Crowley says, too tired to be anything less than honest.

"Good," Azirahale replies, pressing a kiss to Crowley's cheek. "Wake me if you need anything."

***

Crowley wakes to morning sunlight and instinctively lifts a hand to block the light. This results in a hard cast hitting his forehead and a painful jolt up his injured arm. It's not the best start to the day. The other side of the bed is empty, so at least Aziraphale didn't witness that moment of grace. 

Crowley sits up carefully, folding back the thick, fluffy floral duvets that Aziraphale loves. Gingerly, he moves his fingers. That hand is still a bit swollen but it should settle in a few days, according to the doctor. Now he just has six weeks in a cast, maybe a month if he's lucky.

It's strange not to have Aziraphale in bed. Aziraphale is a big believer in lying in as long as possible and not facing the day before midday if he can help it. Maybe he's already left for York, which will be awkward because Crowley doesn't have keys for his place.

If he's alone, there's no reason to struggle into trousers with one hand. Crowley saunters out to the living room in black boxer briefs and doesn't find Aziraphale in the kitchen or the living room. He finds Aziraphale at the desk tucked into the corner of open space behind the living room. According to the architect plans, it's a study nook but Crowley uses it as a greenery. Aziraphale's dressed all the way to his tartan bow tie and has tiny round glasses perched on his nose, peering down at a book with yellowed pages.

Crowley watches him for a moment. Watches the way Aziraphale blinks and frowns at the text, the way he looks up when he thinks and then types a few sentences in the ancient Mac, touch typing without looking. Crowley isn't the type to gush over how adorable things are, but if he was, adorable is the perfect word for Aziraphale right now.

"Shouldn't you be on your way to York?"

Aziraphale startles and looks over to the open hallway. And then bites his lip and gives Crowley another slower glance. (Crowley might flex, just a little.) "Anthony, you'll catch your death of cold," Aziraphale chides as if he doesn't keep his flat cosy and warm.

"What happened to York, angel?"

"I called this morning and postponed."

"You'd been looking forward to that all week." Some private collection he wanted access to study, someone who refused to allow the books to leave their premises; all in all, the kind of book owner Aziraphale thoroughly approved of. But it had still been a long negotiation process to even be allowed access. "Call them back. You don't need to cancel plans because of me. Let me back into my place, and you'll be in York by lunch."

Aziraphale carefully removes his glasses, folding them up and gently placing them in a case. It's tartan. He crosses the small space in four steps. "No one wants to be alone and hurt."

"No one wants it, sure," Crowley agrees, "but it's not life threatening. I'll be fine."

"Those books are four hundred years old. They will wait another week." Aziraphale steps closer and rests his hands in Crowley's bare sides. It's not exactly a hug, but it could be if Crowley leaned forward a few inches. "I'd much rather you stayed here, at least for a few days. Have someone in earshot if you need help."

"I still have one perfectly good hand," Crowley says (instead of "Can I?" and "Yes, please."). He demonstrates this by curling it around Aziraphale's shoulder, tugging playfully at his lapel.

"Have you ever tried to tie a plastic bag using only one hand? Or work a belt?"

"That one's easy." He moves his right hand down to Aziraphale's belt. A few pulls, a few tugs, and he's got the leather slipping free. "Old party trick."

"Well, I never," Aziraphale breaths out in a shocked whisper, but he doesn't step away from Crowley. When Crowley unzips his fly, there's stirrings of interest under his hand. Crowley slides his palm over thin, body-warm cotton, grinning as Aziraphale hardens.

"You are very distracting," Aziraphale says, hands sliding around Crowley's back and holding him close. "You're a bad influence."

"Always."

Crowley leans in for a kiss but Aziraphale pulls back, keeps an inch between their mouths. "And you'll stay? For a few days?"

Crowley groans. Never let it be said that Aziraphale doesn't understand good negotiating tactics. "I'll be fine," he says, adding a twist of his fingers that makes Aziraphale's hips twitch forward.

"I'd worry." He says it with two hands groping Crowley's arse, with Crowley's fingers around his cock, and he still sounds sincere.

"If I say yes, will you come back to bed?"

Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley's cheek and promises, "I'd even fuck you without getting undressed first," proving he knows Crowley far too well.

It does something indecent to him, the idea of getting bent over the bed by Aziraphale in his tidy layers, still in his bow tie and waistcoat and neatly buttoned shirt. Crowley's knees go weak at the thought. "Fine, yes."

Aziraphale drags it out, ruthless in the best way. "You'll stay?"

"Yes, for a few days," Crowley agrees eagerly and Aziraphale finally kisses him.

***

Aziraphale puts his lockpicking skills to use to get them inside Crowley's flat. They water the plants and then gather the essentials: clothing, a toothbrush, phone charger and laptop. Back at Aziraphale's, Crowley spends the day binge-watching Friends and Seinfeld on the sofa with his sleek, black laptop and big noise-cancelling headphones. Aziraphale works at the desk, carefully turning pages and taking notes.

Every so often Aziraphale will wander to the kitchen for cocoa and food, and deliver a plate of something on his way back. It's all light nibbles -- grapes, cheese and biscuits, toast with marmite -- things that can easily be eaten with one hand while watching a screen. 

When Crowley doesn't touch the cocoa -- far too sweet for his tastes -- Aziraphale brings strong, milky tea with the next plate. Crowley usually lives on coffee, water and spite, but the tea is gentle and soothing, and he drinks most of it without noticing.

Eventually, Crowley gets restless. He twists in the sofa, trying to defeat the cushions attempting to swallow him, but he can't get comfortable. The canned laughter on the sitcoms is starting to annoy him, but he can't see anything else on his laptop that he wants to watch. He logs into Netflix but there's too much to choose from and none of it appeals. He tries watching YouTube videos of people falling over, usually a surefire way to lift his mood but today the sheer stupidity annoys him.

He doesn't realise his arm has started to ache until Aziraphale appears in front of him, holding water and painkillers. "I'm fine, angel," he says, glaring.

"Yes," Aziraphale replies wryly. "That's why you've been huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf."

Crowley glares harder.

"Take some painkillers and go have a lie down. You can take your laptop if you want."

"I'm not a child. I don't need to be put to bed." Crowley's not comfortable on the sofa, but sometimes common sense takes a backseat when he's tired and sore and looking to pick a fight.

Aziraphale doesn't oblige Crowley's foul mood. Instead, he kisses Crowley's forehead like a benediction, saying, "My dear boy, perhaps you could allow that healing a broken bone takes more than sheer willpower. The body needs rest and a respite from pain."

"Not if it knows what's good for it," mutters Crowley darkly.

"I don't think you can threaten a bone into healing." Crowley ignores the amused glint in Aziraphale's eye. "I'll need another two hours, and then we could go out for dinner. Or takeaway, if you want."

"Out," Crowley replies. He's had enough of sitting in someone else's flat, waiting for time to pass.

"How about a bath in the meantime? Come on," Aziraphale says before Crowley can complain about the idea. He usually has a shower, not a bath, but a bath might be easier with the cast.

Crowley follows Aziraphale into the bathroom, watching Aziraphale duck into the little cabinet beneath the sink and pull out bubble bath and three wide candles. "Do you want music?"

"It's a bath, angel. Just run the water."

"Before you complain about it, Anthony, perhaps you should try it."

"Fine," Crowley replies and that's how he ends up lying in a bubble bath that smells of raspberries. The candles are gently flickering on the windowsill, casting the bathroom with dim, warm light. The water is sinfully hot, relaxing shoulder muscles he didn't think were tense. Aziraphale wrapped the cast in a Sainsbury's bag with a bit of kitchen string tied around it, and managed a makeshift sling tied to the bathroom sink. It looks like a hammock for a doll, but it keeps Crowley's hand elevated and dry. There's a boxy stereo at the doorway playing Handel's Water Music softly.

(When Crowley asked if Aziraphale had anything more modern, Aziraphale said, "Would you prefer Chopin? I have Tchaikovsky but that's a bit loud and sudden for a relaxing bath." Crowley didn't have the heart to ask if he owned any music written in the last fifty years.)

Crowley is so warm and relaxed he may never move again.

***

Crowley reaches with his right hand to turn off the insistent chime of his morning alarm. There's a groan from the other side of the bed.

"What is that noise?" Aziraphale grumbles, lifting his head enough to look at his bedside clock. An actual radio alarm clock, complete with a red digital display showing the time. Crowley didn't think anyone used those any more. "It's six o'clock. Why is your alarm set for six?"

"Because some of us keep office hours," Crowley replies, amused by the way Azirapahle drops his head back to the pillow. His blond curls are a fluffy mess. "We don't all lie around in bed and work in the evenings."

"It's six in the morning," Aziraphale repeats, in a tone that suggests it might as well be three a.m.. It's an ungodly hour, at least according to a night owl like Aziraphale.

"Go back to sleep."

Aziraphale mumbles something about helping, but he's half-asleep already.

"I'll wake you if I need help."

A bath at night has been the easier option this weekend so Crowley brushes his teeth and manages to get dressed: black slacks, black t-shirt and a black leather jacket. The jacket won't fit the cast, so he drapes that side over his shoulder and pulls the look off with the flair of Freddie Mercury.

It takes longer to fix his hair with only one good hand and Aziraphale's ancient and inefficient hair dryer. Crowley makes a mental note to buy him something better. No wonder his hair always edges towards woolly baa-lamb territory if this is all he has to work with.

Crowley actually manages to get himself out the door without waking Aziraphale back up.

The first call he makes from the office is to the mechanics, checking on the damage to his Bentley and the expected timeframe. Three weeks, if they can source replacement parts and don't have to machine them by hand. Up to two months if they do. Crowley would be annoyed about it if he wasn't stuck with a cast for a month. He organises for a quote to be sent to his insurance company and for his flat keys to be couriered over.

He spends the next millennium -- fine, two hours -- on the phone with his insurance company. He waits on hold, gets put through to claims, discusses the ugly white cast on his arm, gets transferred to someone else, has to explain why their preferred mechanic is entirely unworthy to even touch his Bentley. He gets transferred to someone else, explains again only for them to agree and offer a replacement car while his is being fixed, and then he has to explain the cast -- which somehow hasn't been added to his file because it's not in the police report.

Then Crowley has to call the police and talk to some admin idiot to have it noted on the file that he was injured, and then get them to fax it back through to the insurers.

Then there's another call to the insurers. By the end of it, Crowley has negotiated partial cover of his taxi costs for the next month. It's a petty victory but it's his.

He looks up from his desk to find Anathema standing over him, arms crossed loosely over her chest. "No offense, boss," and Anathema only calls him that when victory is theirs or the world is ending; there is no in between with Anathema, "but you've had better days."

"I've had worse days," Crowley points out, because Anathema already knows she's right most of the time. She doesn't need Crowley to confirm it. 

"True, but the next forty-eight hours are deadline free and you look like you need to spend them all sleeping."

As usual, Anathema's right. Crowley's spent the morning doing nothing productive and yet he's exhausted. His arm is aching and he didn't bring painkillers with him. He wants to crawl back into Aziraphale's arms and have a nap. "The Samson project needs an update by Thursday."

"We're doing final stage testing and then letting Newt try to break it," Anathema replies brightly. "Are you going to go home?"

Crowley stands up, gathering his keys and phone. "Only because I'm the type of boss happy to take the credit while his underlings do the work."

"Good," Anathema says with a sharp nod. She walks off in a swirl of long skirts, calling over her shoulder, "There's a taxi waiting for you downstairs."

There is a taxi waiting for him, booked to take him back to Mayfair. On the back seat, Crowley reflects that Anathema would be an annoying know-it-all if he didn't personally know that she only got life _almost_ always right. The time she insisted that he see a psychic to sort out his aura comes to mind, and the horrified look on her face when he explained she'd actually organised an appointment with a dominatrix. He still enjoys reminding her of that.

Crowley plays with the keys in his pocket. Now that he has them, he really doesn't have any need to stay with Aziraphale. He can run a bath and get dressed on his own; he should go back to his place. After Aziraphale's clutter of books and soft furnishings, it's almost relaxing to return to the uncompromising concrete walls of his flat. Crowley takes his time watering his plants, checking them for any imperfections and applying some liquid fertiliser.

He salvages some aged cheddar and crackers from his kitchen, but the less said about the sad rotting tomato in his fridge the better. He settles in front of his sleek oversized plasma TV. It occurs to him as he watches The Golden Girls -- Rose talks about the right way to RSVP and Blanche makes a joke about opening the party -- that he should thank Aziraphale. It would be rude to leave him ordering dinner for two.

The easiest way to write the email is to pretend it's to a client. Be polite, be appreciative, specifically mention what you're thanking them for, and offer to be helpful. Thank Aziraphale for his kind concern and hospitality. Mention that Crowley's home now so he can come over any time Aziraphale wants him to collect anything left behind. Crowley doesn't overthink it. He just sends it, then dims the downlights and stares at the TV, ignoring any pesky emotions.

He's spent the last three nights there. Any more would be overstaying his welcome, especially when it's not needed now. Sure, it was nice to fall asleep beside Aziraphale… well. Nice isn't the word for it, not really. It's been the warmth of shared meals and shared smiles, the sweet respite of someone who listened to Crowley's petulant whining and still ran him a bath. The comfort of falling asleep to the lamp on and the rustle of pages turning and the weight of fingers playing with his hair. It's been comfortable and homey, settled and easy in a way that feels stolen. In a way that doesn't ever apply to Crowley. He's good times and that spark of danger, too cool and too stylish to be trusted, wild nights that you remember years later with amazement and lust. He's not cocoa on the sofa and gentle classical music on the stereo. Whatever Aziraphale is, it's not meant for people like Crowley.

One episode blurs into another. Crowley closes his eyes and drifts to the sound of canned laughter. He wakes to two soft taps at his door.

"Nrgh," he manages, stumbling off the couch. He opens his front door, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. 

"Oh, I woke you up. I am sorry, my dear." It's Aziraphale, all dandelion curls and soft, hapless layers. Crowley blinks once at him.

"In." Crowley's brain is still stuck in first gear, sputtering and barely moving. "You. Inside."

Crowley closes the door behind Aziraphale and follows him into the hallway. He's ambushed by Aziraphale's hands on his arms, Aziraphale pressing a soft hello kiss to his lips and then another to his cheek, and then there's a warm hand at the nape of his neck.

"You were fast asleep, weren't you?" Aziraphale coos softly as Crowley rests his forehead on Aziraphale's shoulder. His cologne is sweet and floral, and there's a comforting hint of musty old books and cocoa. "Let's get you back to bed."

Crowley could force himself to wake up, but it's much easier to let Aziraphale guide him down the hallway with a hand around his back. Much easier to let Aziraphale help him out of his shoes and clothes, and tuck him beneath the cool sheets.

"We'll order something when you wake up." Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley's forehead. Crowley's last thought as he drifts off is how joyously happy Aziraphale looks at the thought of carbs and grease: "I'm thinking pizza."

***

It's dark when Crowley wakes up and drags himself out of bed. Nearly ten o'clock, according to the very fancy watch in his bedside drawer. He can't wait to get this cast off and be able to wear it again.

He finds Aziraphale sitting at the desk in Crowley's spare bedroom, reading a heavy leather-bound book. "Hi," Crowley says, feeling a little foolish.

"You look much better," Aziraphale says warmly. He places a fabric bookmark at his page and closes the book. "I got a little peckish, so I went ahead and ordered. I'll put the pizza in the oven and heat some up for you."

"I can do that," Crowley offers awkwardly. "You didn't have to stay."

Aziraphale gives him a shrewd look. There's so much about Aziraphale that's soft and fussy and joyful, it's easy to forget there's more to him than that. There's a very sharp sense of humour, a smug superiority that can judge others with a few cutting words, and a very bright mind beneath the funny little spectacles and tartan bow tie. "Are you telling me to leave, my dear?"

"No, no," Crowley says quickly. "Just... I'm fine. You don't have to stay."

"But if I wanted to stay and share that pizza, and maybe a glass of that excellent 2010 Bordeaux in your pantry…?"

"I should have known you'd spot the wine," Crowley mutters, heading to the kitchen. It's easier than saying anything else, but Aziraphale takes it as the invitation it is. "You might as well pour us each a glass."

Aziraphale is right. The wine pairs wonderfully with the lamb and feta pizza, eaten on the sofa with the TV playing Chopin from YouTube. Aziraphale doesn't stay the night. Crowley offers, but Aziraphale grimaces and says, "As much as I'd love to, your morning alarm is truly hideous."

"Oh," Crowley says, and then, "You just came over for pizza?"

Aziraphale raises a coy eyebrow. "If you'd been awake earlier we might have done more. But given the uncivilised hours you keep, I don't think that's a good idea at midnight."

Crowley almost suggests next weekend. It's the safe, reasonable option, the one easiest to agree to. But Aziraphale came over when he didn't have to. He stayed. Maybe Crowley can risk a little bravery. "How about I make it up to you tomorrow night? Go out to dinner first?"

Aziraphale lights up. "What about Ethiopian? I've been craving something a little spicy. I could book a table for tomorrow."

"Sounds good, angel."

***

Aziraphale continues citing Crowley's alarm as the reason he won't stay overnight, but it's hard for Crowley to object when Aziraphale takes the time to peel him out of his clothes, running fingers over every inch of exposed skin. Aziraphale takes his time tracing along Crowley's ribs and the flat plane of his stomach. There's a whisper light graze around his sides, then the slightest catch of nails down either side of Crowley's spine.

Crowley has to bite his lip not to rush him. Aziraphale takes a twisted satisfaction in leisurely unbuttoning the waist of Crowley's trousers, pulling the zipper down so slowly that Crowley holds his breath to hear the soft growl of the zipper.

Aziraphale folds to his knees to push the trousers down Crowley's legs. He leaves them around Crowley's ankles to run his tongue across Crowley's left knee and then bite into the muscle above it. He starts kissing his way up Crowley's leg, prone to the occasional sharp bite that makes Crowley gasp.

Crowley's hard long before Aziraphale even touches his cock.

He glances down at Aziraphale: the halo of pale blond curls; the soft curve of strong, bare shoulders; the pink lips pressing a kiss to Crowley's hipbone and then to the base of Crowley's cock. It's almost too much. "Angel."

Aziraphale leans back and blinks up at him, lips soft and parted. "Yes, dear?"

Crowley has to drag in a breath before he opens his mouth. "Despite the visual appeal, your knees won't appreciate the polished concrete floor."

"That's very considerate." Aziraphale gets up without a wince but still. "Perhaps bed would be better."

He presses a kiss to Crowley's collarbone, and Crowley jerks away from the ticklish sensation. Aziraphale's eyes light up but he doesn't press his advantage. His next kiss lands on Crowley's neck. Gripping Crowley's hipbone, Aziraphale takes a few shuffling steps forward, guiding Crowley to the bed.

Sitting on the mattress, Crowley leans down to remove boots and trousers as Aziraphale strips off his remaining clothes. It takes a little more time using only one hand but Crowley's got this. Naked, Crowley folds back the covers and spreads himself across the dark grey sheets.

Aziraphale stares for a moment, swallowing, and then he climbs between Crowley's open legs. He kisses and sucks Crowley's cock, occasionally stopping to nibble along the tense muscles at Crowley's groin. It's slow and warm, measured in a way that Crowley's never especially cared for, but Aziraphale drags it out with his palms smoothing along Crowley's thighs, with his mouth warm and wet on Crowley's balls, with gentle licks just beneath the head of his cock.

When Crowley squirms for more, canting his hips up towards those pretty lips, Aziraphale slides his hand back and starts playing with his hole. A slow slide of one finger, pressing against the rim but not pushing inside. Just enough to tease Crowley with the thought that he could, that he might. That any moment now he could have Aziraphale's mouth on his cock and fingers in his arse, and he knows how good Aziraphale is with his hands.

"Please," Crowley hears himself beg, voice low and tortured. "Please, angel, come on."

Aziraphale lifts his head, pressing the lightest of kisses to the wet head of Crowley's cock. "Are you sure?" he asks brightly because he's the right type of bastard, the type who will smile sweetly and make Crowley beg.

"Yes, please. Please, angel," Crowley pleads desperately. Aziraphale rubs his finger a little harder and Crowley presses his hips down. "Pretty please, fuck. You make me feel so good."

Aziraphale pushes in, just one finger. Before Crowley can beg for more he's pushing up and twisting, pressing against the perfect place to make Crowley's toes curl into the sheets for purchase. Then Aziraphale ducks down, sucking hard and pressing his tongue firmly along the head, and Crowley arches off the bed, grabbing hold of Aziraphale's back with his good hand.

He's making sounds, not words. It feels too good to care. He feels like a spring, every muscle tightening until the tension is too much, until he has to tap at Aziraphale's shoulder in warning. Aziraphale wraps a hand around his cock, adds a tight, fast stroke to the jangle of sensations filling Crowley, and Crowley comes so hard he should hear a heavenly choir.

Panting, he collapses back into the mattress. "Fuck," he says, taking another breath and still giddy with endorphins, "you have fantastic hands."

"Thank you, my dear."

Aziraphale crawls up over him and Crowley pulls him down to a kiss. He likes kissing after sex, likes the softness of it, that sheltered feeling of hiding in Aziraphale's arms. He even likes the heat of Aziraphale's cock pressing against his stomach. Crowley rests the heavy cast on the sheet and uses his other hand to grip Aziraphale's hip, to tug him into a rhythm. 

It takes Aziraphale a moment and then he gets it, starts rocking his hips into Crowley, thrusting against his stomach. There's something lazy and dirty about it, lying here and holding Aziraphale as he rubs one out on Crowley's skin. He likes the hot puff of breath against his shoulder, the cut off litany of curses as Aziraphale loses himself in sensation. Even better, he can reach down and get a handful of lush, plump arse, squeeze as he feels the muscles working under the flesh.

From the grunt Aziraphale makes, he enjoys it too. It's close and sweaty, and by the time Aziraphale comes -- chanting, "Fuck, fuck, fuck," into Crowley's skin -- they're both a mess. A sweaty, tired, happy mess.

"Sure you don't want to stay?" Crowley asks, fighting his body's desire for sleep.

"I truly hate your alarm," Aziraphale mutters against Crowley's neck. "Give me a moment to get myself together."

"I'm not chasing you out," Crowley says, as if the arms wrapped around Aziraphale don't prove that already.

"Perish the thought, dear boy." Aziraphale sighs, then slowly levers himself out of bed. He flicks on the lamp. "Stay right there."

Not like Crowley was planning to go anywhere. Crowley stretches on the bed, loose limbed and relaxed. He listens to the sound of running water and then Aziraphale returns with a warm washcloth.

"Thanks," Crowley says, wiping the sweat off his face first, and then taking care of the mess on his stomach. He drops the cloth on the bedside table and watches Aziraphale recover his clothes. It feels like asking too much, but he forces his tone to stay casual and asks, "When will I see you again?"

"How about we stay in tomorrow? Cook?"

"I could do pasta."

"Sounds delightful," Aziraphale says, pulling his white boxers up. He shakes out his trousers and steps into them. "Shall we say seven?"

***

They're making out on Aziraphale's sofa when the phone rings. Well, making out is a generous term for what's mostly cuddling on the couch with the occasional soft kiss. Aziraphale has snuck a hand under his shirt, but it's only resting on the skin of Crowley's lower back. Crowley should go home for an early night, but he's been saying that for the last hour.

When the phone on Aziraphale's wall rings, they both look over in surprise. Crowley because the idea of having a landline at home seems so outdated; Aziraphale because he has low opinions of people who call after nine at night.

"Who can that be?" Aziraphale mutters as he gets up to answer it. "Hello?" he asks with cool politeness. "Oh, Gabriel. No, you know me. I wasn't asleep yet."

Crowley stretches on the sofa, wondering if he should leave. Surely it's bad form to eavesdrop on Aziraphale making small talk, asking how Gabriel is and what he's up to.

"Oh, New York," Aziraphale says, shrugging at Crowley in a way that seems apologetic. "I do love their bagels. How long are you over there for?"

"Another week, really?" Crowley hears as he stands up. He waves a hand to the bathroom to let Aziraphale know he's not leaving, and Aziraphale nods and says, "Your grandmother's ninety-second birthday? How charming."

Crowley pees and washes his hands, and then stands in front of Aziraphale's mirror. His red hair is sticking out at unfortunate angles, making him look more clownish than he's comfortable with. He likes Aziraphale's hands in his hair, likes the way Aziraphale tends to touch and stroke and sometimes tug, but it's not a good look.

He combs it with his fingers until it's under control. He washes his face. He scrubs his nails. He still doesn't hear Aziraphale calling for him to come back in. He perches on the tub for a moment, checking his phone. But once he's cleared the spam from his inbox, there isn't much left to do and hanging around a bathroom is weird and awkward in a different way.

From the hallway, Crowley watches Aziraphale sitting comfortably in his armchair. The armchair is cream and tan tartan, with tiny threads of burgundy in the pattern. It doesn't match the floral sofa but it looks just as soft and squishy. 

"As you know," Aziraphale says, handset held to his ear and long cord looping back to the phone on the wall. He's twirling it around his fingers as he talks. "I had to delay the trip to York for a few weeks."

Crowley grimaces. He knows why Aziraphale delayed going to York; he hadn't realised Gabriel knew anything about it.

"Yes, yes," Aziraphale says, "it's a very interesting thread. And there's no point getting access to those books without knowing as much of the context as possible."

Crowley's eyebrows shoot up. He doesn't think Aziraphale's lying, exactly, but it seems like a convenient truth.

"I might need to renegotiate some deadlines on the first draft, but it will be a far superior book," Aziraphale declares firmly. He glances towards the hallway and sees Crowley. Aziraphale invites him in with a wave, saying, "It's been lovely to hear from you, Gabriel, but it is getting decidedly late here."

There's a pause, and then Aziraphale says, "Oh," in surprise, and then, "Next Saturday? Are you sure you'll be-- oh."

The glance he shoots at Crowley is hard to read, somewhere between dismayed and resigned. "Well, if you already have the tickets," he says, and then, "Yes, yes, it's very kind of you to think of me. Yes, I'll keep next Saturday free."

Aziraphale looks to the ceiling as Gabriel says something in reply, and then, "Well, yes, take care. Call me when you're back in London."

Crowley doesn't say anything as Aziraphale stands up and places the handset back on the wall.

"That was an unfortunate interruption." Aziraphale sighs, but thankfully doesn't share any details about his plans with Gabriel next Saturday. "Do you want a cocoa before you head off? Or a cup of tea?"

Aziraphale's tastes run to the sweet and milky, but Crowley finds it a bit too much. He needs something with a bit more bite. "Green tea?"

"Certainly, my dear. Follow me."

There's a heavy silence once they get to the kitchen. Well, it's heavy and awkward on Crowley's end because he doesn't know what to say. He's cool, absolutely, but he's not quite cool enough to talk about this with any equanimity. It's not as if Crowley has any sensible justification for wanting Aziraphale to refuse and say he was busy. Ideally, Aziraphale would have said he was seeing someone, might have said it was serious, but that's on Crowley. That's Crowley being greedy and wanting more than this is.

And even if he knows he shouldn't be threatened or hurt by Aziraphale making plans, he needs a moment before he can fake the right emotions.

Aziraphale doesn't say anything either, but he's busy fussing with the cocoa and switching on the kettle, pulling out mismatched mugs. There's a thoughtful expression on his face as he pours water for Crowley's tea, but he only says, "There we go," as he hands the mug to Crowley.

Crowley jiggles the teabag, watching the water turn to a warm light brown. "I told you about the conference call tomorrow night, didn't I?"

"You mentioned the inconvenience of working across different time zones. Once or twice," Aziraphale says pointedly. It's the most annoying thing about his current projects, so Crowley might have complained about it a few times. At great length.

"I'll be busy tomorrow, that's all."

"How about Friday then? We could get Italian," Aziraphale says, smiling openly, eyes wide and hopeful. "Share a nice chianti?"

Suddenly, it's easy to forget that Gabriel even exists. "Sounds good, angel."

***

The trouble with denial is that Crowley's never been very good at it. Some people can ignore a problem and pretend it doesn't exist, but Crowley's always wanted to try fixing it. Sometimes it's curiosity, sometimes it's the challenge of being the first one to solve it. Either way, it's a trait that makes him a great analyst but also leaves him lying awake in the middle of the night, stuck in loops inside his own head. It leaves him stuck thinking about it when he should be enjoying a nice day out.

He knows he should leave it alone. They're strolling through St James Park on a sunny Sunday afternoon, enjoying the nice weather and finding an excuse to get out of bed. They also have half a loaf of bread because it was going stale, and when Crowley suggested feeding it to the ducks, Aziraphale almost bounced in delight. It's been a pleasant afternoon, leaning on the railing as they watch the stupid birds squawk and fight over the plentiful food.

It's not the time for Crowley to say, "So what are your plans for next Saturday?" as he tears up another slice of bread.

"Next Saturday? Um, hmmm," Aziraphale says, resting his hand on Crowley's elbow, a little above the cast. 

"Your plans with Gabriel?" Crowley prompts carefully.

"Oh, Gabriel. He bought tickets for The Sound of Music."

Crowley shouldn't press. He shouldn't throw a crust to the fat grey duck at the back and say, "You don't sound like you're looking forward to it."

"Good Lord, no. But Gabriel is such a fan and it was kind of him to think of me." He throws his own piece of bread into the water. "It's not a terrible musical but it is all tied up so neatly."

"You'd rather the Nazis caught them?"

"If I was going to watch a musical about Nazi Germany, I'd vastly prefer Caberet." Aziraphale watches him, as if Crowley's reaction could be anything but nodding in agreement. It makes perfect sense for Aziraphale, who never pretends to be anything less than unmistakably gay, who is delighted by the world but also considers it carefully, looking beyond first appearances. "And I'm rather partial to Sondheim."

Crowley raises an eyebrow above his sunglasses. "Sweeney Todd?"

"You know," Aziraphale says, dipping his hand into the bag of bread, "I saw that live. The effects were quite amazing but I wouldn't have wanted to be in the first row."

"I thought you'd enjoy it," Crowley says, leaning over to press his shoulder against Aziraphale's. "After all, there's a whole song about pies."

"Wicked creature," Aziraphale scolds in return, but his eyes are crinkled in amusement.

Crowley debates it for a second, and then he leans closer and presses a quick kiss to Aziraphale's temple. This is enough, he tells himself. This is more than enough.

***

They go out for Indian on Friday night. Crowley sticks to the butter chicken because while he likes the idea of a strong curry, curries don't feel the same way about him. Aziraphale orders an eye-watering vindaloo and then sits back with his empty plate and says, "Different continents, I know, but I'm craving pistachio gelato."

"Then let's get some," Crowley says, pulling out his phone and googling. It's London. There's always something open somewhere.

They end up walking back to their building, Aziraphale licking a double serving of pistachio and strawberry gelato as they wander. "Sure you don't want some?"

"Too sweet for me," Crowley says and Aziraphale frowns.

"It's very good." He stops walking to lick an errant drip from the back of his hand. It's not a sexy gesture or it shouldn't be, but Crowley's throat goes dry at that sudden peek of pink tongue. "You should try some."

There's a note of teasing in Aziraphale's voice. He glances around and then takes a few steps into an alleyway, almost hidden in the shadow of a building. Aziraphale curls a few beckoning fingers, and Crowley follows. 

"You really should try it," Aziraphale says, tugging Crowley's jacket lapels to pull him close. He holds up his cone but doesn't push it towards Crowley. No, he takes a long lick and then leans in. He kisses Crowley: cold and sweet with Aziraphale's warm tongue underneath it. He takes his time, holding Crowley close until the ice cream taste has gone completely.

When he pulls back, Crowley's breathing hard. That's not the only part of him that wants to be hard. "That's a dirty trick when we're still fifteen minutes from a bed."

Aziraphale slides his hand down Crowley's back, holding him close. "You haven't tried the strawberry yet," he says, taking a lick of the strawberry.

This time, Crowley's prepared for the trick, for the mix of warm and cold and sweet. He's not prepared for Aziraphale's free hand groping his arse, pulling his hips in tight. He can feel Aziraphale's already half hard, can feel the groan vibrate across his lips when he rocks their cocks together.

He could push Aziraphale against the brick wall. He could drop to his knees right here, suck Aziraphale's cock until he forgot about the damned gelato. It's a dirty, empty alley off a quiet street -- no one would know, no one would see, and Crowley's done this often enough to know. He's got a disreputable youth and a rebellious middle age to draw from, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want this to be tawdry or tacky. He doesn't want to tarnish Aziraphale's opinion of him, of what they could be.

It's a useless realisation to have while he's pressed against Aziraphale in a dark alley. Crowley drops his head to Aziraphale's shoulder, pressing a kiss to his neck as he stalls.

"A penny for your thoughts, my dear?"

"I don't think they're worth that much," Crowley mutters.

"Of course they are. I think they're worth a great deal," Aziraphale says earnestly. Crowley believes him, amazing as that is.

"You kissed me."

"Yes?"

Crowley doesn't know how to say the rest of it. To ask why. What Aziraphale expected. Aziraphale started the kissing and the groping, so maybe tawdry and tacky is what he's looking for. Maybe headjobs down some dirty alley is what he's expecting from Crowley. Gabriel, with his pristine suits and cashmere sweaters, wouldn't get down on his knees in the muck.

As soon as he thinks that, Crowley knows he's being unfair. He steps back and meets Aziraphale's eyes. "How did you see this ending, angel?"

"A slightly distracted walk home, but this might have been better in theory than in execution," Aziraphale says, frowning at the melting remains of his gelato. It's dripping down his hand, melting into cream puddles on the footpath. "I was enjoying that."

"There's a Tescos on the way. We'll buy you more ice cream."

"Oh, that's very indulgent," Aziraphale says coyly, but he doesn't say no.

***

As much as Crowley tries to hide it, he's in a foul mood come Saturday morning. He wakes up with Aziraphale in his bed and it should be a good thing, but all he can think about is Gabriel. Aziraphale and Gabriel going out to the West End tonight. Aziraphale inviting Gabriel home, taking him to bed; spending Sunday morning like this, lying under the covers together, warm and mostly naked.

Crowley heads to the bathroom before he says anything. He sets the shower for scaldingly hot and then curses the stupid plastic bag he has to tie over his cast. At least it's something he can growl and swear at with good reason. When he steps out flushed red from the hot water, he tears the plastic bag apart.

He finds a pair of sunglasses and gets dressed, and goes to make a strong dark espresso. He's on his second cup, scowling at the ficus and its lacklustre growth, when Aziraphale pads out of the bedroom. Aziraphale's cheeks are rosy and his hair is a pale blond fuzz, sticking out like the world's whitest afro. He's only wearing white boxers and a white shirt with a few buttons done up. He looks rumpled and sleep warm. Crowley's fingers itch to touch but he grips his mug tighter instead.

Aziraphale pulls a sympathetic face at the sunglasses. "Feeling a little hungover?"

"Something like that," Crowley says and it's barely a lie.

Aziraphale wraps a hand around his bicep and it's a considerate, caring gesture. Not what Crowley wants at all. "If you're feeling up to it, maybe we should go out for brunch. Some fresh air might make you feel better."

"Doubt it," Crowley mutters. "Go have a shower. I've already had one."

Aziraphale looks slightly disapproving at his brusque tone. "Someone got up on the wrong side of bed," he says pointedly but he goes back to the bedroom so Crowley considers it a win.

He finishes his coffee and pours another, sipping as he tries to glare a hole through the cupboard door. It's not Aziraphale's fault, he knows that. He's angry but Aziraphale isn't doing anything wrong; they agreed to casual sex and Crowley's the one who misinterpreted. He assumed spending weeknights together meant something, something other than Gabriel was out of the country so Aziraphale didn't have anything better to do.

Crowley's angry at the whole situation. He's angry at himself for being upset about this. He's angry at Gabriel for being so tall and so good looking and such a complete fucking wanker. He's angry at Aziraphale for not wanting Crowley the way Crowley wants him.

He's angry at Aziraphale for being nice to him when it doesn't mean anything beyond right now. Which is ridiculous because Crowley wouldn't be sleeping with someone who was mean to him.

The only thing that shakes this kind of mood is driving the Bentley at insanely fast speeds down empty country roads. But the Bentley's still waiting on parts and Crowley's arm is in a cast.

Crowley goes to make another coffee but his hands tremble, so he decides against it. He flicks the kettle on and carefully pulls down a mug. He drops a tea bag into it and has to shake the jitter out of his hands to hold the kettle steady as he pours. When Aziraphale comes out, fully dressed in all his soft layers, Crowley has a mug of tea waiting for him.

"English Breakfast," Aziraphale says in surprise, as if Crowley doesn't listen when he talks about favourite tea blends. "Thank you, my dear."

Crowley grits his teeth against the endearment -- not what he thinks it means, not what he wants it to mean -- and washes his own mug in the sink. He gives it an extra scrub, trying to exorcise old tea stains through sheer effort.

"Be careful of getting that cast wet," Aziraphale reminds him gently, a hand guiding his elbow away from the water.

"I can wash a damn dish, angel."

Aziraphale doesn't even flinch. He keeps one hand on Crowley's arm and asks, "What is wrong with you today?"

"Nothing. Nothing is wrong," Crowley spits back, stepping away. "Everything is fine."

"Clearly not."

"Everything is fine, and I'm sure you have better things to do than lurk around my kitchen."

Aziraphale sets his half full mug down with care. He smooths his hands down his waistcoat, settling his shoulders back. "I'm not lurking."

"Lurking, hovering, overstaying your welcome. Call it what you like."

"If you wanted me to leave, you could have said so." Aziraphale's voice shifts into something that belongs in a headmaster's office: all sarcastic politeness and deep disappointment. "There's no need to behave like this."

Crowley rolls his eyes. "You've got plans tonight. You don't need to hang around here."

"Are you jealous?" Aziraphale asks incredulously.

"No, of course not," Crowley lies through his teeth. Why would he be jealous of an attractive man taking Aziraphale out, taking him to bed? It's not like he has any claim on Aziraphale's spare time. Why should it bother him at all?

"You are," Aziraphale says. "This is a very unattractive side to you, Anthony."

"Oh, is it? Is It?" Crowley demands, flinging both arms up in the air for emphasis. It's less effective with one arm in a cast. "You're right. Absolutely. I'm the one overreacting."

Aziraphale raises one steely eyebrow. "You rather are," he says coldly.

Crowley splutters, desperately trying to think of something good to say. Something clever and cutting, something that proves that he's not acting like petulant five year old having a tantrum.

He honestly can't think of anything. 

Aziraphale stares at him, mouth pinched in disapproval. "Are you going to continue being so ridiculous?"

Crowley sighs, deflating. Fuck it. Aziraphale's right -- Crowley doesn't get to complain about it now. He knew the conditions when they started this. Crowley was all for convenient and no strings when it gave him an excuse to see Aziraphale; it's not fair to change the rules just because he wants more.

When this ends, it's going to _hurt_, Crowley realises suddenly. It's going to fall apart, it's going to be messy and painful, and right from the start, Crowley should have been smarter. Should have remembered that he is bad at relationships, he always wants more than anyone signed up for. He's old enough to know better.

He's old enough to know this is going to be one of those breakups that leaves him napping on the couch for a week, refusing showers and natural light and talking to other humans. And when he does finally drag himself out of the flat, he'll probably still see Aziraphale in the lift, and have to smile at whoever Aziraphale takes home next.

He's fucked. He should have seen this coming.

"Do you have anything else to say?" Aziraphale asks, chin set and shoulders tight.

"Ignore me," Crowley says, avoiding Aziraphale's eyes. Knowing he's doomed doesn't mean he has to speed the whole thing up. "Go out, have fun."

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and lets it out with the slow control of someone trying to maintain their calm. "Do you want me to check on you when I get back?"

He could say yes just to annoy Gabriel. For a moment, Crowley imagines it. Aziraphale coming back at the end of the night, dragging Gabriel to his door because he'd given his word, because he worries and cares about people. Even petty, clingy people like Crowley. "I'll be fine, angel."

"Maybe an early night," Aziraphale suggests, softening. "And take some of those painkillers you keep manfully resisting. Honestly, you've been a bear today."

Claws and sharp teeth, growling and ripping people to shreds: Crowley can see the appeal in being a bear. "Just go, angel."

***

As much as Crowley wants to curl up on the sofa and watch The Golden Girls until it's tomorrow, he drags himself out of his flat. If he stays at home, he's going to end up knocking on Aziraphale's door and apologising or arguing again or both. He just needs to get through today and stop thinking about stupid Gabriel, and then figure out a way to salvage this later. He goes to Sainsbury's for some essentials -- milk, bread, that roasted pumpkin dip Aziraphale loves -- and then wastes half an hour at Hedonism Wines, trying to choose between two bottles of pinot noir. In the end, he buys both.

He does laundry and scrubs his bathroom clean and his phone still says it's only mid afternoon. So he empties every kitchen cupboard and cleans it, and then cleans his fridge. By the time he settles on his sofa with a well-earned Talisker, he can take an odd comfort in the fact that Aziraphale will be gone by now.

He ends the night curled up on the sofa, watching comfort TV. He even pulls out the stupid blanket Aziraphale gave him weeks ago, a black on black tartan with a tiny line of red thread. Tartan. He now has a tartan woolen throw rug because Aziraphale had said, "It did make me think of you, dear, and sometimes it's so nice to have something to snuggle under." Or mope under, Crowley thinks, sitting up enough to pour another glass of whiskey.

It's not surprising that he falls asleep on the sofa. It's a little surprising to wake up to the sound of his door unlocking and gently creaking open. Aziraphale peeks around the open door, frowning when he spots Crowley sprawled over the sofa. He presses his lips together tightly and then says, "I didn't want to knock if you were asleep. I didn't want to wake you."

"Well done," Crowley replies mildly, sitting up. He shoves the blanket out of sight beside the sofa. The living room doesn't get as much morning light as his bedroom, but it's probably around eight. "You're up early," he says and then wishes he hadn't. He knows why. Aziraphale's always up early when Gabriel leaves. He scrubs his hands over his face. "I've just woken up. Give me a minute."

"I thought if we were both up, we could talk," Aziraphale says far too cautiously. "About last night."

Crowley winces. "Do we have to? Can't we just say I was wrong and I'm sorry and leave it at that?"

"I really don't think we can." Aziraphale looks to Crowley before sitting down on the other end of the sofa. He waits until Crowley actually nods before he sits. He folds his hands in his lap and sits up straight, only giving Crowley the occasional sideways glance. "I'm not comfortable with that level of jealousy. The fact that we're seeing each other doesn't give you the right to veto my plans with other people."

"I didn't veto anything," Crowley says, folding his arms. Well, wrapping one arm around the cast. "I got angry and I'm sorry, but I didn't say you couldn't go."

"I know that," Aziraphale agrees quickly. "But I have, in the past, been involved with some rather controlling types and there are certain things I refuse to accept. Jealousy is not flattering, and I shouldn't have to justify spending time with friends."

Crowley snorts at the euphemism -- friends, indeed -- but he doesn't want to pick a fight right now. Aziraphale came here. He must have walked Gabriel out and then come straight to Crowley's place, and maybe that's enough. Just for a little while longer, maybe Crowley can pretend that's enough. "I'm sorry. Really, angel."

"Sorry for what, exactly? Because I don't understand," Aziraphale says and now he turns to Crowley, soft and imploring. "I know that you're hurt and your car is taking longer to fix than you'd hoped, but you've never shown any sign of not trusting me before. I don't understand why you're suddenly angry about me having social plans."

Crowley feels about two inches tall. Aziraphale has a point: this wasn't a problem for him before, so why is he making a big deal out of it now? "Maybe we should go back to how it used to be? See each other on weekends."

"Would that help?"

Crowley doesn't know but it's worth a try. "I think so. I think knowing you were with Gabriel drove me a little mad. We can go back to when I didn't ask if you were busy and didn't know who you were with."

Crowley draws his knees up, sinking into his own little ball of misery. It feels like this is where any self-respecting adult would ask Aziraphale to choose, but Crowley's too much of a coward. It's easier to lie, to tell himself he can make the best of this, that he doesn't need anything more. That it's better to have a little bit of Aziraphale than lose him completely.

It takes him a moment to realise Aziraphale hasn't said anything. When he risks a glance, Aziraphale is staring at him, silent and confused. "It worked before," Crowley says defensively. "It'll be fine."

"It worked before," Aziraphale repeats slowly, "when you didn't know who I was with."

Crowley rolls his eyes. "I'm not saying you have to keep it a secret. I'm saying that it would be easier if I didn't wake up in your bed knowing the details."

"Oh," Aziraphale says, and then even softer, "Oh. I think we're operating under some very different assumptions."

"No, we're not, angel. I got jealous and I shouldn't have, and I'm sorry, okay? I understand the situation."

"I don't think you do, dear boy," Aziraphale says as he unexpectedly reaches for Crowley's uninjured hand. He tugs it free and holds it between his palms, thumb rubbing across Crowley's knuckle. "Firstly, Gabriel is my publisher. Nothing more."

"Your publisher who occasionally stays the night?" Crowley feels proud of himself. That sounded more sarcastic than jealous. "I've seen him leave your apartment in the mornings."

"My publisher who is very busy and believes in the efficiency of _breakfast meetings_," Aziraphale says with strong distaste. "Expecting someone to be awake and functioning before eight in the morning is ridiculous. But there aren't a great many publishing houses for theological texts and Gabriel does understand the business very well. Still, I wish he'd have meetings over a nice civilised dinner. Or at least lunch."

Crowley blinks once. "What?"

"He insists on early meetings. I slept through our first two appointments, so he offered to meet me at my place and make sure I didn't miss out on the 'best part of the day'. Seven a.m. is not the best part of the day, Anthony. It's barely daytime." Aziraphale looks so offended by the concept that Crowley finds himself nodding. Nodding and believing Aziraphale in stunned wonder. "Secondly, I spent last night with a group of Gabriel's friends and coworkers, who all knew The Sound of Music by heart and sang along for the entire show. That was not a date of any sort. It wasn't even a pleasant evening."

Crowley thinks he might be starting to smile. "Sounds horrible."

"Thirdly, I'm not sleeping with anyone but you. I don't want to sleep with anyone but you, and I'm quite sure you feel the same."

"Quite sure, are you?" Crowley asks, grinning now.

"Well, I had some doubts but I figured it out."

"Doubts?"

"You are very stylish." Aziraphale bites the edge of his lips and gives Crowley the kind of once over that, at any other time, would make Crowley preen. "Very… flash."

Crowley shrugs. It's clearly true. "And?"

"Not to say I don't appreciate your sense of style. Frankly, my dear, I find you terribly fetching." Aziraphale's smile gets a little hungry. Then he pulls Crowley's hand closer, cradling it against the buttons of his waistcoat. "But in comparison, I'm rather… dull. Dull and comfortable, but I like who I am. I wouldn't want to be anyone else."

Crowley nods because he can't argue that Aziraphale is exciting or follows any trend less than ten years out of vogue. But Aziraphale is kind and funny and his smile makes Crowley happy; he's fussy and precise and sharp-witted, and he forgets his cocoa and wears his clothes until they're threadbare; he kisses Crowley like there's nothing else in the world that he needs to do and he grumbles when Crowley gets out of bed early, and he always kisses Crowley goodnight before they fall asleep. "There's more to life than flash," Crowley says and somewhere across London, Anathema is probably getting one of her weird senses that something very strange is happening in the world.

"Exactly, but on first impressions, well, I worried that you might want to go out to clubs at midnight or skydiving, or whatever it is cool, exciting people do these days."

"Mountain climbing."

Aziraphale pulls back, face caught in horrified fascination. "As a pastime? Really? Why?"

"Because it's a hobby poor people can't afford."

"Oh, elitism, always terribly cool," Aziraphale says cattily. "Seems like a waste of good money to me."

"From a man who paid a hundred quid for a bottle of wine. Last week."

"But I enjoyed the wine. You can't tell me people enjoy huffing up a mountain and trying not to die." Before Crowley can point out that defeating death is a rush people have always loved, Aziraphale shakes his head and says, "My point is that I could never be one of those exciting types, even if I saw any value in it. I worried that you would find me too boring."

"Worried?" Crowley asks. "What changed?"

"I realised that you like dull. Despite all the, well," Aziraphale says, waving a hand at Crowley's black scoop neck t-shirt and once-black faded jeans, giving that prim glance that makes him seem like a Victorian maiden aunt. "Despite everything, you like snuggling on the sofa and quiet meals for two and wandering the park on a sunny afternoon. You'd rather spend a lazy day inside with me than be out running a marathon. You like my dull life."

Crowley breathes that knowledge in for a moment, allows it to settle into his bones. He knows it's true but he hadn't expected Aziraphale to notice. He'd never imagined Aziraphale would say it like… like it's a wonderful secret, like it's a new tiny bakery selling mouth-watering macarons. Crowley swallows. "It's not dull with you there."

"Oh, Anthony," Aziraphale sighs. His face breaks into the sweetest smile. It's heartbreakingly sincere. "Thank you."

Before they both drown in so much sap, Crowley rolls his eyes and leans forward to kiss Aziraphale. It's the easiest way to stop them talking and to stop Aziraphale from seeing the expression on his face. It quickly goes from fond to deep and a little desperate, as Aziraphale keeps one hand on his and the other tenderly curled around Crowley's neck.

Crowley drops his forehead to Aziraphale's shoulder, breathing in the warm, clean scent of him. Aziraphale strokes his fingers along the back of Crowley's neck and says, "I don't know about you but I slept abysmally last night. Honestly, I could spend the whole day in bed."

Crowley can't think of anything that would sound better right now. "No crumbs in bed."

Aziraphale gives a considering hum. "I'll agree not to eat anything that leaves crumbs."

***

Despite Crowley's worries, he's happily surprised that nothing much changes. They still go out for meals, they still talk more by email than by phone, and they still spend time in each other's flats. When Crowley has an appointment to get his cast removed, Aziraphale sits beside him, smiling pointedly at the nurses desk and making them uncomfortable. It's the same smile Aziraphale gave to a maitre'd last week, when he had the gall to ask if they were ready to free the table, simply because they'd spent an hour drinking and talking over dessert. (Aziraphale had refused to leave, polite and stubborn until the maitre'd backed down and made the desserts complementary. He's wonderfully terrifying when he wants to be.)

"It's not their fault, angel." Crowley leans over on his seat, helping himself to the tin of shortbread biscuits Aziraphale brought in case they got 'peckish'. They're surprisingly good. "They can't control how many doctors are on shift."

"Someone should be," Aziraphale mutters but he stops his intimidatingly polite staring contest. "You're taking this very well."

"I'm getting the cast off. I get the Bentley back tomorrow. I had a fantastic excuse to stick Anathema with the world's most annoying client, and you're here. With biscuits. There are worse ways to spend a day."

Aziraphale gives him such a soft, indulgent look. "I suppose you have a point."

Maybe Crowley presses his shoulder into Aziraphale's; maybe he lets their fingers tangle together. "How about a game? Most shaggable person in this waiting room? If you weren't sleeping with me, of course."

"You," Aziraphale says simply.

"If you weren't sleeping with me," Crowley repeats.

"You're in this waiting room, so you."

"If I wasn't here," Crowley specifies, half flattered and half sure that Aziraphale's only saying it to purposely mess with the game.

"Oh." Aziraphale takes another look around. It's slim pickings. Everyone around them is tired, uncomfortable and bored. "Is the nurses' desk included?"

"Yes," Crowley says, thrilled at the idea that Aziraphale might play along.

"In that case," Aziraphale says, straightening in his chair, "James, the nurse who checked you in."

"Really?" Crowley looks over the bridge of his sunglasses to take a second look. Late twenties, dark hair, pale skin and sharp cheekbones; a bright grin when Aziraphale had insisted on being listed as Crowley's emergency contact. A dark hint of tattoo ink under his sleeve. "Not a bad choice."

"Theoretically," Aziraphale says with meaningfully raised eyebrows. "And your pick?"

That's when the doctor calls his name. "Him," Crowley says, glancing at the dad with the hyperactive three year old, with the workboots and shoulders that suggest a career in construction. Not the most attractive face but for those shoulders, you could close your eyes and just hang on.

Aziraphale seems rather amused by the choice. "Honestly, what would you even talk about," he mutters under his breath as they follow the doctor to the exam room.

"But you and James would have great conversations?" Crowley replies, trying to keep a straight face.

"For a start, we could have a good chat about the staff roster here."

***

Aziraphale still loathes Crowley's alarm. "What is that infernal noise," he mutters as Crowley sits up and turns it off. "And why are you here?"

"Because you said I could stay," Crowley replies, setting a second reminder for six thirty. "You have a meeting with Gabriel, remember?"

Aziraphale pulls the covers over his shoulders, curling around his pillow. "Not until Wednesday."

"It is Wednesday, angel."

"Can't be. Too early."

Crowley nearly points out that early morning exist on Wednesdays too, but Aziraphale's already drifted back to sleep. Crowley leaves him snoring gently and has a shower. He's dressed and ready for the day when the second reminder sounds. He decides bribery might be the better option and makes a cup of tea.

Aziraphale has rolled on to his back, arms spread wide across the bed. Crowley sets the mug down on top of two books on his bedside table, and then softly runs his fingers through Aziraphale's loose curls. "Come on, angel. Wake up and have some tea."

Aziraphale scowls adorably. "What?"

"Sit up and have a cuppa," Crowley says gently. "Come on."

Aziraphale blinks and glares at him, but he does shuffle up until he's leaning against the headboard.

"That's it," Crowley says, pressing the mug into Aziraphale's hands. Aziraphale cradles it to his chest, letting his eyes close as he takes the first sip. "I'm giving you ten minutes to drink that and wake up, and then I'll chase you into the shower."

He leaves Aziraphale alone with his tea, and ten minutes later finds Aziraphale slightly more awake. If not particularly happy about it. "I have a meeting with Gabriel this morning, don't I?"

"You have twenty minutes," Crowley points out, gathering the mug. "Go have a shower. I can let him in if he arrives before you're ready."

"Thank you, my dear." Even tired and grouchy, Aziraphale still manages a small, fond smile for Crowley. "He's likely to be obnoxiously cheery."

"I already know he's obnoxious," Crowley replies and goes to have his coffee on the sofa. He checks the news on his phone and reviews the day's calendar as he listens to the shower running. The shower stops while he's reading emails and a few minutes later there's a loud knock on the door.

"I'm almost ready," Aziraphale calls out and Crowley gets up to answer the door.

Gabriel is bright eyed and grinning. He's dressed head to toe in a sophisticated pale grey, with the barest hint of lavender in his silk scarf. "Crowley," he says, brows jumping high. "Good morning."

"Care to come in?"

"Thanks," Gabriel says, stepping inside. He glances around at the piles of books and clutter around Aziraphale's living room and gives a long suffering sigh. "I suppose it's too much to hope that Aziraphale is awake."

"Awake and ready to leave," Aziraphale says from the doorway, adjusting his bow tie. He's standing there in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, and those loose brown trousers that do nothing for him. "Apart from my coat, that is."

"Well done," Gabriel says approvingly, to Crowley of all people. "You're clearly a good influence."

Crowley's horrified at the thought. He looks to Aziraphale, who only gives him an apologetic shrug as he pulls on his coat. "Ready to go?"

"A good influence," Crowley hisses under his breath as Aziraphale locks the door behind them. No one cool has ever been the good influence.

"Hardly. You're the fiend who woke me up at the crack of dawn," Aziraphale replies, "and sex wasn't involved at all."

In the lift, Gabriel spends most of his time checking his phone. Aziraphale uses the distraction to stand beside Crowley, and trace his fingertips across the back of Crowley's thighs. Crowley stands still, watching the lift doors and trying to think unsexy thoughts as Aziraphale's fingers roam higher.

Clearly, Aziraphale isn't holding much of a grudge about being woken early. Although next time, Crowley might try waking him for sex and see how that goes. He can just imagine kissing away Aziraphale's grumbles, working his way under the sheet to suck him off. Slow and sweet, with Aziraphale sleepily grabbing his hair...

"Oh, that reminds me," Gabriel says and Crowley tenses in surprise. He'd nearly forgotten Gabriel was there. When he glances sideways, Aziraphale gives him a devastatingly smug smile as he slides his hands into his pockets. "Are you busy on the nineteenth?"

"Of this month?" Aziraphale says. "I think so. I'd have to check."

"Michael wants to see Mary Poppins while it's on. It's not The Sound of Music, I know, but there'll be a bunch of us going and I thought you'd like a ticket."

From the expression on Aziraphale's face, he's about to suddenly remember a prior engagement. Crowley quickly says, "Have you booked tickets yet?"

"No. We're finalising numbers on," Gabriel looks down at his phone again, "Friday."

"Put us down for four," Crowley says with a grin.

"Four?" Aziraphale asks pointedly.

"I'd like you to meet some of the people I work with," Crowley says charmingly. Aziraphale is not impressed by it. "This would be a great way to get to know them."

"And you'd be able to meet some of Aziraphale's colleagues," Gabriel says happily. "Four tickets. I'll email Aziraphale the details."

Crowley could offer them a ride since he's driving to work, but the idea of Gabriel inside the Bentley is inherently wrong. As soon as Gabriel goes to flag a taxi, Aziraphale turns to him and glares. "What are you playing at?"

"This way, you can go but you won't have to sit next to any of them."

"Assuming I'll like your co-workers better?"

Crowley laughs. "Everyone likes Newt. Everyone. Not everyone likes Anathema but she's very clever -- odd but clever -- and you like clever."

"Why do I get the feeling you're up to something?" Aziraphale asks suspiciously. He watches Crowley closely.

"Can it be a surprise? Do you trust me?"

"More than I should," Aziraphale says fondly, leaning in to press a goodbye kiss to Crowley's cheek and squeezing Crowley's hip.

***

Crowley understands Aziraphale's apprehension when he meets the rest of Gabriel's cronies. There are a few bland sub-editors clearly there to get on with the boss, a few vice presidents who act like wetter, British versions of Gabriel, and a handful of other writers. Aziraphale should fit right in, but Crowley sees his strained smile as soon as he walks into the foyer and it only gets tighter as they stand around waiting.

Uriel seems a little intense, telling some story about an interview for her latest book. Everything about Michael seems sharp and mean, especially when she speaks to Aziraphale. Crowley can't get a read on the last one, Sandalphon, but Aziraphale doesn't talk directly to him. Crowley doesn't get a chance to ask about it until Anathema and Newt show up and everyone else is distracted with introductions.

"What's the story between you and Sandalphon?"

"His last book," Aziraphale says quietly, disapproval dripping from his words, "was on the wisdom of Leviticus."

Crowley frowns, thinking. "Isn't that the anti-gay one that's always quoted?"

"It is a list of rules where only one rule is quoted regularly and the rest are ignored as archaic. Given that we no longer agree with stoning or selling your children into slavery, it's quite hypocritical to only quote the part that suits your argument."

Crowley takes a long look at Sandalphon and resolves not to leave Aziraphale's side tonight. "I'm guessing the book sold well."

"He's Gabriel's golden star at the moment, despite his unpalatable attitudes."

"Forget them," Crowley says, taking Aziraphale's hand and giving it a squeeze. "Come meet Anathema and Newt."

As expected, Aziraphale does like them both. Newt, because he's earnest and charming in a rather bumbling way. ("I'm a tester," he says, grinning. "If anyone can find a way to make a new system spit out the wrong information or get the instructions mixed up, it's me.") For once, Anathema doesn't say anything particularly strange or odd. She only smiles and says, "It's such a pleasure to meet you. It really, really is."

Azirapahle goes a pleased pink. "Oh, has Anthony talked about me?"

"Not at all," Anathema says and Crowley eyes her warily. Any minute now, she's going to start talking about auras or environmental issues or alien conspiracy theories. She waves her hand in Crowley's direction and, yes, it's going to be auras. "But he's been so yellow lately." 

"Yellow?" Newt asks because he believes in this stuff. He'd believe the moon was made of cheese if Anathema swore it was true. "Is that good?"

"Always." Anathema turns to Newt and smiles, and really, Crowley can't blame the boy for falling for her. She's gorgeous and brilliant, capable and unerringly practical, passionate and only a little loony. "The last few weeks, his aura's had flashes of yellow and gold. It's a sign of happiness and contentment. Usually, it's a sign of falling in love."

"Ignore her, angel. And you," Crowley tells Newt, "you just got to be seat thirty-two." He hands the tickets out -- seat thirty-one for Anathema, seat thirty-three for Aziraphale and he keeps thirty-four for himself. "Come on, they're opening the doors."

The performance itself is good, not Julie Andrews but good. Crowley gets a little tearful at _Feed the Birds_ and tries to discreetly wipe under his eyes. There's a touch to his elbow and he turns to Aziraphale, ready to laugh it off with a joke, but Aziraphale only passes his handkerchief and then settles his head on Crowley's shoulder.

At the intermission, Gabriel leads the group downstairs to stretch their legs. Crowley happily stands up from the small seats and follows, but Aziraphale pulls a face. "I'm happy to stay here," he says.

That would block Newt and Anathema, and therefore derail Crowley's plan. "Come on, angel. There was a nice Riesling at the bar."

Michael, who's been sitting on Crowley's other side all night, looks over her shoulder. "More wine, Aziraphale?" she asks sharply and Aziraphale brushes down his waistcoat self-consciously, glancing back at his seat as if it could hide him.

"Come keep me company," Crowley says. "You know I'll drink alone if I have to."

That sparks a small smile. "Heaven forbid."

There's a crush of bodies on the stairs down to the foyer, slowing them down enough to talk. "What about you two?" Crowley asks Anathema and Newt. "Glass of wine? My treat?"

"Yes, please," Newt says, even though he doesn't really like wine. He likes standing around with a glass of wine in his hand, pretending he's an adult, especially when it means Anathema will swap glasses with him when hers is empty.

Anathema is far more canny. She gives Crowley a narrow stare. "Your treat? Why is it your treat?" Crowley grins at her, and Anathema blinks, bright mind working quickly. "I want chocolates, too."

There's a reason why Anathema is his favourite. She's frequently right, which is a handy skill but it's not terribly endearing. What Crowley really likes about her is that she knows her own mind and has no compunctions about sharing her opinions, no matter how unwelcome they may be. He'd pay good money to see her debate Mary Poppins showing motherhood at the cost of political activism to a conservative bunch like Gabriel and his friends; two glasses of wine and some chocolates is cheap.

He drags Aziraphale to the bar, citing that he needs help carrying the glasses back. "What are you up to?" Aziraphale asks as they stand in the slow moving queue. He looks curious and a little wary, but not disapproving. Not yet, at least.

"There's a very easy way to make sure you're not invited to social functions: make everyone feel uncomfortable with strong opinions. Anathema has many, many opinions."

Aziraphale raises a speculative eyebrow. "Do you think that would work?"

"Look at them," Crowley says, nodding over at the small knot of people. Anathema is talking intensely, hands moving as she makes her points, and Gabriel is staring at her, stunned. Beside him, Uriel and Sandalphon keep looking back and forth from Gabriel to Anathema, clearly trying to edge into the conversation. Anathema isn't pausing long enough for them to be able to change the topic. "She can go for ten minutes without stopping for breath."

By the time they return with drinks, Gabriel has gone from stunned silence to standing over Anathema, smarmy smile not reaching his eyes. "While I appreciate your passion, young miss, you are entirely missing the point."

"What point?" Crowley interrupts quickly, before Anathema can take Gabriel to task for employing patronising sexist terms. He hands her a glass of white wine and a box of Maltesers, and then looks around the rest of the group, "What did we miss?"

"Nothing important," Gabriel says, jaw tight. 

"The restricted females roles seen in musicals," Anathema says to Crowley, ignoring Gabriel entirely. "The focus on being a wife and mother and how it necessitates abandoning interests outside the home."

"Such as the suffragette movement?" Crowley asks, playing along while he wonders what was said to make Gabriel's manly jaw clench like that.

"Or the nunnery in The Sound of Music," Anathema says and thankfully the chime rings for everyone to return to their seats. 

"Typical," Newt says, eyeing his mostly full glass of wine.

Anathema shrugs and downs hers in three swallows. "Come on," Anathema says to Newt, and he looks around for somewhere to place his glass. Anathema rolls her eyes and takes it from him and Crowley gives him a bag of jelly babies instead. Anathema certainly earned them. He has no idea how she knew The Sound of Music was Gabriel's weak spot, but she has a sixth sense for these things.

He sips his wine and waits for the crowd to thin a little before they head upstairs. Behind him, he can hear Aziraphale talking to Gabriel.

"Thank you for thinking of us," Aziraphale says, a little too polite to honestly mean it. "Anathema and Newt are such a nice young couple, and it's such a delight to see theatre with a group of friends. You'll keep us all in mind next time you organise one of these lovely outings, won't you?"

"If we can get the tickets," Gabriel says unconvincingly. "It's harder with a big group."

"Oh, I understand completely," Aziraphale says and Crowley grins to himself.

***

Since it's a Saturday night, they end the evening in Aziraphale's bed with no alarms set, no clothes and no plans to wear clothes for at least another twelve hours. Possibly fifteen. Aziraphale had been downright eager when they got into bed, pressing Crowley down onto his back and straddling him, biting along Crowley's shoulder while he fumbled in the bedside drawer for lube. Crowley remembers kneading handfuls of flesh at Aziraphale's hips as Aziraphale knelt over him, sinking down slowly, so hot and perfect around Crowley's cock. He remembers Aziraphale's face caught in pleasure, smile twisted into something hungry and overwhelmed. Riding Crowley with indulgent, rolling movements, one hand braced on Crowley's shoulder and the other stroking himself, catching moisture on his fingers and pressing it to Crowley's lips to suck clean. 

"Do you really think that worked?" Aziraphale says. It's late but he seems a little restless. Crowley would put even odds on him getting up to find a book to read in the next twenty minutes.

Aziraphale is the only person Crowley's ever heard of who likes to celebrate good sex by reading a good book. Crowley much prefers a nap. "What worked? Because if you can't tell how much I like your fingers in my mouth--"

"No," Aziraphale interrupts quickly. "Not that. I have no doubts about how well _that_ worked. I was thinking of Gabriel."

"What?" Crowley pushes himself up on one elbow, glaring at Aziraphale in the dark. "While we were…"

"Of course not," Aziraphale says and Crowley relaxes back into the mattress. It seems unlikely, but he'd hate the idea that Aziraphale was thinking of someone else tonight. "Trust me, my dear, I wasn't thinking of anything but you and how good you felt under me."

"Good." It's not that Crowley needs the reassurance or the comforting squeeze of Aziraphale's arms wrapping around his chest. He also doesn't need the kiss that Aziraphale drops to his shoulder, but he does enjoy relaxing into it.

"I was just lying here," Aziraphale continues, "thinking about Anathema and Gabriel. Do you really think it will work?"

"I think they'll stop inviting you," Crowley says, stretching out and getting comfortable. "And if they don't, we'll think of something else. Or I'll be stuck going to musicals with dreadful people."

"Oh, would you?" Aziraphale prompts, sounding like Crowley's offered to share his dessert.

"I'd hardly want to leave you alone with them," Crowley replies. "They're awful."

Aziraphale's silence is a strong agreement. He might not want to admit it out loud but they both know it's true. Crowley closes his eyes and allows his body to sink into the mattress. He's warm and content and halfway to sleep when Aziraphale stirs behind him. "My dear?" Aziraphale asks gently.

"Go get a book if you can't sleep." Crowley buries his face under his arm, hiding from the inevitable light.

"Maybe later." But there's a click of the lamp switching on. Fingertips trail down Crowley's spine, causing a shiver that unfortunately wakes him up. "I was also thinking about what Anathema said. About your aura."

About falling in love, Crowley realises. She was right, but it seems too soon. He's only known Aziraphale for three months and being exclusive is one thing, but love is a big heavy word to drop into a relationship. There's nothing more awkward than someone trying to gently explain that they don't feel the same way. Still, Crowley's trying this new thing called honesty where he doesn't outright lie about this relationship, where he doesn't say things are fine when they're not.

Crowley settles on saying, "What about it?" which is one step better than his defensive instinct to deny it.

"It occurred to me that you might not realise that I've fallen in love with you." Crowley twists around to stare at Aziraphale. In the yellow lamplight, there's a soft glint of Aziraphale's smile, as fond and sincere as his tone. "I do love you dearly."

This never happens. Never. If Crowley isn't the first to say I love you -- and deal with the awkward let down -- it simply never gets said. The relationship can blaze and fizzle down to cold embers without anyone admitting feelings are involved at all.

"Anthony?"

"Nrgk," Crowley says, floundering against the completely unexpected.

"Oh, you didn't know," Aziraphale says earnestly, sounding rather pleased with himself. "I'm so glad I said something. I'm just going to fetch a book. I'll be back in a minute."

Crowley watches him leave, too flummoxed to think any lascivious thoughts about that bare arse. He's still staring at the doorway when Aziraphale walks back in, heavy leather bound book in one hand, plate of Jaffa Cakes in the other. "I love you too, you know," Crowley blurts out as Aziraphale gets into bed. Those words are far less frightening than they should be.

"How lovely," Aziraphale says happily, and then, "Choccy biscuit?"

Crowley stares at him, at the soft tufts of curls and the bright blue eyes, the pale rounded shoulders and the plate of biscuits resting on his belly. Aziraphale smiles as if he couldn't be happier than this exact moment and all Crowley can say is, "I thought we agreed no crumbs in bed?"

"We agreed no crumbs in your bed," Aziraphale replies loftily and then he leans over and kisses Crowley goodnight.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Multi-voice Podfic] Good Neighbours, Good Fences (and Other Misunderstandings)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26164891) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan), [Gorillazgal86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorillazgal86/pseuds/Gorillazgal86), [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)


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